University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


c 


FROM    THE    CRUCIFIX 
TO  THE   CROSS 

AND 

THE  HERETICS 


STORIES  OF  WESTERN  MEXICO 


BY 

HARRIET    CRAWFORD 


F.  I,.  ROWE,  PUBLISHES,  CINCINNATI,  OHIO 

1909 


PUBLISHER'S    INTRODUCTION. 

The  two  stories  comprising  this  volume 
are  true  delineations  of  life  in  Old  Mexico. 
The  writer  of  these  stories  has  been  quite 
a  part  of  the  incidents  of  the  stories. 

They  deal  in  a  mild  spirit  with  the 
teachings  and  practices  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  show  the  gradual  leading  out, 
by  Protestant  teaching,  from  the  errors 
of  the  former  to  the  clearer  light  as  taught 
by  the  latter. 

We  are  hopeful  that  the  circulation  of 
these  stories  may  be  encouraged  by  all  lov- 
ers of  the  truth,  and  that  the  impressions 
made  may  lead  others  from  darkness  into 
the  glorious  light  of  God's  truth. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


FROM  THE  CRUCIFIX  TO  THE  CROSS 

PAGE. 

Chapter  I.     "The  Crazy  Old  Monk" 5 

Chapter  II.     The  Bequeathed  Crucifix..   10 

Chapter  III.    Elena 23 

Chapter  IV.     Purgatory 29 

Chapter  V.     The  Young  Priest 34 

Chapter  VI.    Juan 42 

Chapter  VII.     The  Word  of  God 48 

Chapter  VIII.    Danger 57 

Chapter   IX.     Deceived 66 

Chapter    X.     Faithful 70 

Chapter  XL     Released 76 

Chapter  XII.     Found .82 


THE   HERETICS. 

Chapter     I.     Dona     Alicia     and     Her 

Treasures 91 

Chapter  II.    The  Mother  of  God 100 

Chapter  III.     The  Ransom 105 

(3) 


PAGE. 

Chapter  IV.    A  Deserted  City ^ 111 

Chapter  V.    A  Very  Strange  Thing...  115 
Chapter      VI.     "The      Heretics"      and 

Father  Lorenzo 118 

Chapter  VII.     "Thou  Hast  Not  Denied 

My  Name" 124 

Chapter  VIII.     Two  Mothers 135 

Chapter  IX.    Mariana 139 

Chapter  X.   The  Bishop  and  His  Pover.144 
Chapter     XL    Altizo     Town     and     its 

Mayor 149 

Chapter  XII.     Saint  Francisco 157 

Chapter     XIII.     Strong     Enough      and 

Brave  Enough 164 

Chapter  XIV.    The  Power  of  the  Priest- 
hood  1«9 

Chapter  XV.    Tested 173 

Chapter  XVI.    A  Wedding  Guest 181 

Chapter  XVII.     Aurelio 184 

Chapter  XVIII.   A  Work  Well  Finished. 194 


(4) 


FROM    THE   CRUCIFIX   TO 
THE   CROSS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
"THE  CBAZY  OLD  MONK." 

Brother  Leonardo,  the  old  priest  of  the 
Oalistro  School,  was  kneeling  on  the  cold, 
earth  floor  of  his  cell.  The  cell  was  his 
own  little  room>  and  he  was  his  own 
willing  prisoner.  The  room  was  bare  of 
furnishings,  save  a  narrow  iron  bedstead 
and  a  low  wooden  stand.  A  "petate"  (na- 
tive mat)  served  as  mattress,  and  across 
this  lay  a  coarse  woolen  blanket,  the  only 
covering.  The  walls  were  of  adobe,  the 
plastering  still  clinging  in  places.  On 
these  walls  hung  a  few  brightly-colored 
prints  of  some  of  the  saints,  most  con- 
spicuous that  of  .St.  Peter,  with  keys  sus- 
pended from  his  girdle. 

In  a  niche  in  the  wall  stood  a  clay 
figure  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  bright  in  blue 
and  gold,  with  the  infant  Jesus  in  her 
(5) 


arms.  Hanging  above  this  image  was  a 
wooden  cross,  upon  it  the  painted  figure 
of  Jesus  crucified. 

Under  this  cross  and  under  this  image 
kneeled  the  old  man.  His  worn  black  robe 
had  fallen  from  him,  revealing  undergar- 
ments coarse  and  still  more  worn.  His 
face  was  very  thin  and  deeply  marked  by 
suffering.  As  he  kneeled,  clasping  his 
brazen  crucifix,  his  black  sunken  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  image  before  him,  he  prayed. 

"O,  holy  Mother  of  God,  have  pity  upon 
this  feeble  child  of  thine!  Precious  heart 
of  Mary,  be  my  salvation!" 

Suddenly,  there  was  a  voice  at  his  door, 
a  child's  voice,  calling,  "Abre,  Tio,  abre!" 
(Open,  Uncle,  open!)  A  light  crept  into 
those  dull  eyes.  The  old  man  arose,  moved 
slowly  across  the  floor,  and  withdrew  the 
bolt  from  the  door.  There  sprang  into  the 
room  a  handsome  boy  of  about  twelve  years 
of  age,  straight  and  lithe,  with  the  step  of 
a  soldier  and  with  eyes  flashing  and  black. 

"Santisima  Virgen!  How  you  do  love 
this  dark  corner!  Come  out  into  the  gar- 
den, Tio  mio,  into  the  sunlight  and 
among  the  flowers!" 

The  old  man  looked  fondly  into  the  eyes 
of  the  boy  and  said: 

"My  beautiful,  the  Virgin  smiled  when 
thou  wast  born!  Sunshine,  birds  and  flow- 

(6) 


ers  were  made  for  thee!  But  not  for  me? 
I  soon  must  leave  them  all,  but  ere  I  go 
I  must  find  peace,  peace  for  my  soul!" 

"And  wilt  thou  find  it  here?"  interrupted 
the  boy,  looking  about  him. 

The  old  man  only  replied  by  drawing  the 
boy  toward  him.  Then  he  led  him  to  the 
little  iron  bedstead,  where  together  they 
sat  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Uncle,"  began  the  boy,  "there  is  a 
stranger  in  our  town,  a  white  man,  from 
the  great  country  north  of  us.  As  he 
walks  our  streets  he  carries  papers  and 
little  books.  We  met  him  this  morning, 
Juan  and  I.  He  held  out  a  little  paper  to 
me,  and  I  reached  to  take  it,  but  Juan 
drew  me  back,  and  told  me  not  to  touch  it. 
The  stranger  did  not  speak.  He  only 
looked  at  me  and  smiled,  and  there  was 
kindness  in  his  smile  and  in  his  face.  But 
Juan  hurried  me  on  and  told  me  that  the 
holy  father  said  that  whoever  should  talk 
to  this  stranger,  or  should  take  aught  from 
him,  would  be  cut  off  from  the  Holy 
Church  and  his  soul  forever  lost.  For  this 
stranger,  Juan  said,  is  one  of  those  'Prot- 
estantes'  lately  come  into  our  town." 

The  old  man  had  been  listening,  but  at 

the  word  "Protestante"  he  raised  his  head, 

and  with  horror  in  his  voice,  exclaimed, 

'Ay  Dios  mio!     And  have  those  accursed 

(7) 


heretics  found  our  beautiful  little  city? 
Have  they  come  here  to  lead  away  our 
young  and  our.  innocent  ones?  But  sure- 
ly the  Holy  Church  will  not  permit!  Thou, 
my  boy,  avoid  them,  for  they  are  the 
devil,  and  they  lie  in  wait  to  destroy  both 
soul  and  body!" 

The  boy  did  not  reply.  The  old  man 
paused  and  seemed  lost  in  thought.  At 
length  the  boy  arose,  threw  his  arms 
around  his  uncle's  neck,  saying,  "Juan  is 
waiting  for  me  in  the  court,  and  I  must 
be  going.  Then,  adios,  till  to-morrow!" 

"My  boy,  my  beautiful  boy!"  murmured 
the  old  man,  as  the  boy  disappeared.  "The 
Holy  Virgin  and  the  Saints  protect  him! 
Save  him  from  the  clutches  of  those 
devils!" 

The  old  monk  was  too  well  wrought  up 
to  return  to  his  knees.  He  could  only 
walk  his  floor.  But  at  length  he  went  to 
the  little  iron-grated  window,  the  only 
place,  save  the  door,  where  the  sun  and 
air  could  enter.  There  he  stood,  looking 
into  the  courtyard,  and  over  the  wall,  into 
the  street  beyond.  But  he  saw  not  what 
his  eye  rested  upon.  He  saw  not  the  sink- 
ing sun  was  touching  with  gold  the  dis- 
tant hilltops,  the  cathedral  spires  and  even 
the  old  adobe  walls  about  him,  before 
leaving  them  in  darkness.  He  saw  nothing 
(8) 


and  knew  naught  but  his  boy,  and  that  he 
was  in  danger. 

At  last,  as  the  gold  was  fading  from  sky 
and  mountain  tops,  the  old  man  turned, 
drew  his  cloak  about  him,  passed  through 
his  door  out  into  the  yard.  He  seated  him- 
self on  a  low  bench  which  stood  against 
the  high  adobe  wall  surrounding  the  build- 
ing. As  he  sat  there,  again  lost  in 
thought,  we  leave  him  a  moment  to  repeat 
the  story  of  his  life. 

Spain  had  taken  possession  of  Mexico, 
and  for  three  hundred  years  her  people  had 
been  under  the  yoke  of  the  Church  of 
Rome.  Among  those  who  had  crossed  the 
seas  from  old  Castile  to  seek  the  silver  and 
the  gold  of  the  new  country  was  the  high- 
born family  of  Calistro.  More  than  one 
generation  had  made  their  homes  in  the 
Capital  City  of  Mexico,  and  had  ever  given 
freely  to  the  Church  their  silver  and  their 
gold,  their  sons  and  their  daughters. 

Ignacio  Calistro  was  the  first  to  break 
the  family  circle,  and  he,  with  his  young 
bride,  crossed  the  vast  tablelands,  the 
high  mountains,  and  came  into  the  new 
and  western  lands  of  Mexico. 

Their  son,  Leonardo,  was  dedicated,  from 

infancy,  to  the  priesthood.     Submissive  by 

nature,  his  childhood  and  youth  were  easily 

molded  by  instructors  of  the  Holy  Church. 

(9) 


But  not  so  his  beautiful  Sister  Feliciana, 
a  couple  of  years  his  senior.  Her  high 
spirit  chafed  under  the  confinement  of  "Sis- 
ters' Schools,"  and  for  her  family's  sake 
she  was  privileged,  as  no  other  pupil,  to 
go  and  come  largely  at  will. 

When  Feliciana  was  only  18  years  of  age 
she  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  hand- 
some and  brave  Colonel  Valentino,  who 
had  been  sent  with  troops  from  the  City  of 
Mexico  to  protect  the  newer  towns  of  the 
west  from  the  devastations  of  mountain 
brigands  and  lawless  tribes  of  Indians. 
The  Church  was  wise  enough  to  see  a  great 
gain  for  herself  in  the  marriage  of  one  of 
her  favorite  daughters  to  the  popular 
young  "Independente"  and  soldier,  for  the 
country  had  been  passing  through  years  of 
struggle,  that  terrible  struggle  between 
Church  and  State  when  the  State,  under 
its  noble  leader  Juarez,  had  come  off  vic- 
torious. 

Some  years  later,  upon  the  death  of  the 
parents,  the  Calistro  estates  were  left  in 
larger  part  to  the  Church,  the  son  and 
daughter  receiving  smaller  shares.  Leo- 
nardo, now  a  young  man,  a  little  over  20 
years  of  age,  had  learned  perfectly  the  first 
great  commandment  of  the  Church  of  Rome 
— submission.  It  was  only  to  be  expected, 

(10) 


then,  that  he  yielded  to  her  request  to  dedi- 
cate to  the  "Holy  Church"  his  own  beau- 
tiful home,  retaining  such  a  part  of  it  as 
he  should  require.  As  a  return  for  his  sac- 
rifice he  was  promised  a  high  position  in 
the  Church,  honor  in  this  life,  and  his 
soul's  eternal  happiness. 

For  some  years  he  was  happy  in  his 
surrender,  and  in  the  praise  of  men.  His 
home  became  the  Bishop's  residence,  and 
the  young  man  was  his  favored  adopted 
son.  But  upon  the  death  of  the  Bishop 
the  building  became  the  training  school 
for  the  young  priests.  The  new  instructors 
required  more  and  more  of  the  building, 
until  it  became  evident  to  Leonardo  that 
the  only  room  he  could  call  his  own  was 
the  little  back  room  in  which  we  found 
him.  He  had  finished  his  course  of  instruc- 
tion, and  was  prepared  for  promotion  in 
orders. 

But  when  he  dared  remind  his  in- 
structors of  that  promise,  he  was  briefly 
told  that  the  promise,  as  well  as  other  con- 
ditions of  the  past,  were  no  longer  of  value. 
And  as  the  young  man  grew  sad  and  silent 
under  his  disappointment,  he  was  told  that 
such  spirit  was  insubordination.  He  was 
told  that  with  a  spirit  in  rebellion  his 
great  gift  of  property  even  could  count  him 

(11) 


nothing,  and  he  must  again,  by  other  gifts 
and  other  good  deeds,  gain  the  approbation 
of  the  Church  and  his  soul's  salvation. 

Gradually  hope  had  gone  out  of  his  life, 
and  with  it  ambition.  Happiness,  too,  had 
left  him.  He  cared  no  longer  for  a  place 
among  men.  But  his  troubled,  wearied 
soul  longed  for  peace,  and  for  such  peace 
he  sought  day  and  night,  if  by  hunger  or 
by  thirst,  or  by  cold  or  by  solitude,  or 
by  prayers  he  might  find  rest  and  quiet  for 
his  soul.  His  sister  had  begged  him  to 
make  his  home  with  her,  but  in  vain.  She 
however,  sent  almost  daily  the  old  servant 
Juan  to  minister  to  his  needs.  But  the 
food  was  scarcely  tasted.  He  remained 
apart  from  men,  alone  in  his  little  room — 
scarce  past  the  prime  of  life,  yet  worn, 
bent  and  broken,  known  only  to  men  as 
the  "Crazy  old  monk  of  the  Calistro 
School." 

But  life  still  held  one  thing  for  the  old 
man,  and  that  was  the  beautiful  boy 
Rudolfo,  his  sister's  youngest  child.  For 
the  daily  visits  of  his  boy  the  old  man 
waited,  as  the  fevered  man  watches 
through  the  hours  of  the  night  for  the 
coming  day;  and  it  was  of  this  boy,  Ru- 
dolph, that  he  was  thinking  as  he  sat  upon 
the  bench  against  the  old  adobe  wall. 
Passers  along  the  street  moved  near  the 
(12) 


wall,  and  the  old  man  could  hear  their 
words  if  he  ehose  to  listen.  A  voice  sud- 
denly waked  him  from  his  reveries. 

"  Tis  a  new  doctrine,  this  stranger 
brings.  A  new  doctrine,  yet  I  like  it,  for  it 
seems  the  truth!  He  further  explains  to- 
night in  his  own  dwelling.  I  care  not  what 
the  priest  may  say,  I  go  to  hear!" 

"Then  I  will  accompany  thee,"  was  the 
reply.  "Where  lives  this  stranger?" 

"On  the  corner  of  Streets  Cuatro  and 
Don  Luis." 

The  voices  passed  on,  but  the  old  man 
started,  for,  like  a  flood  breaking  its  bar- 
riers, so  rushed  forth  long-pent  memories, 
sweeping  before  him  the  years  forgotten. 

"Calles  Cuatro  and  Luis!"  He  could  see 
those  streets;  he  could  see  the  corner, 
where  stood  the  long  low  adobe  room,  the 
school  room,  where  so  long  ago  he  had 
learned  to  spell  the  words  of  his  primer, 
and  where  he  had  committed  to  memory 
his  catechism.  His  sister's  home  was  now 
near  that  corner,  where  lived  his  beauti- 
ful boy.  And  there,  too,  near  to  them, 
lived  that  heretic,  that  Protestant!  Oh, 
ic  must  not  be!  His  boy  so  near  to  danger, 
and  he  so  powerless  to  save! 

He  could  no  longer  sit  there.    He  arose, 
and  when  again  in  his  little  room  the  door 
barred  behind  him,  he  kneeled  under  the 
(13) 


painted  image  and  under  the  wooden  cross. 

"Holy  Mother  of  my  Church,  save  my 
boy!  My  own,  beautiful  boy!" 

Long  time  he  kneeled,  his  crucifix  in 
hand,  prayers  on  his  lips,  but  chill  and 
midnight  in  his  soul. 

At  length  he  arose,  and  with  no  light 
in  his  room  save  the  light  of  the  stars 
through  the  little  grated  window,  he  laid 
himself  down  upon  his  hard  bed.  But  not 
to  sleep;  the  floods  of  memory  still  swept 
on,  bringing  before  him  scenes  long  gone. 
He  saw  again  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  the 
days  of  his  youth,  when  he  passed  from 
the  parochial  school  into  the  school  for  the 
training  of  the  priests.  He  saw  the  com- 
panions of  that  school.  One  face  came 
before  him,  which  he  had  long  forgotten, 
Felipe,  his  happy,  merry  companion.  He 
remembered  that  Felipe  had  sometimes 
talked  about  the  "Protestantes."  Felipe 
had  known  them  in  his  own  town,  and  he 
said  they  were  a  good  people.  Indeed, 
Felipe  had  called  into  question  some  of  the 
teachings  of  their  own  Church,  contrast- 
ing them  unfavorably  with  the  teachings 
of  the  Protestants. 

He  remembered  how,  one  day,  the  Father 

Superior    had    called    his    pupils    together 

and   told   them   that   among   them   was   a 

traitor,  a  false  one,  and  that  he  must,  at 

(14) 


once,  be  driven  from  them  before' he  could 
do  injury.  It  was  Felippe  who  was  thus, 
without  warning,  sent  from  them.  But 
Felipe  had  found  the  moment  to  say  be- 
fore leaving:  "I  am  driven  from  you  be- 
cause I  dare  utter  what  is  true.  It  is  the 
truth;  some  time  this  truth  will  reach 
you  here,  and  you  will  know  it  for  your- 
selves!" 

And  then  there  passed  before  him,  slowly 
and  wearily,  the  long  years  of  disappoint- 
ments and  of  sufferings.  He  had  failed  to 
find  in  life  what  he  had  expected,  and  he 
supposed  the  fault  was  his.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  had  been  deceived  by  those 
who  had  been  his  guides  along  his  path 
through  life. 


(15) 


CHAPTER   II. 
THE  BEQUEATHED  CRUCIFIX. 

When  Rudolfo  went  to  visit  his  uncle, 
the  following  day,  the  old  monk  repeated 
his  warnings.  Each  successive  day  the 
priest  earnestly  besought  his  boy  to  avoid 
the  Protestant  stranger.  Rudolfo  said  lit- 
tle. But  there  came  a  day  when  he  found 
his  uncle  unable  to  arise  from  his  bed. 

"Bios  mio!  You  are  sick  and  alone!  I 
will  call  the  physician  at  once!" 

"No,  no,  my  boy!  I  need  no  medicine, 
save  for  my  soul!  My  body  you  will  soon 
lay  to  rest.  But  my  soul — I  can  not  tell. 
I  have  worn  all  my  life  the  scapular,*  and 
the  Holy  Mother  may  be  pleased  to  re- 
member her  promise,  but  I  am  not  sure, 
my  boy,  I  am  not  sure.  But  I  can  do  no 
more!" 

"I  will  run  and  call  my  mother!"  inter- 
rupted the  boy. 

"Nay,  go  not!     Stay  thou  by  me!    Come 

*  Scapular. — "To  those  who  wear  th« 
scapular  during  life,  the  Virgin  makes  thli 
promise:  'I,  their  glorious  Mother,  on  the 
Saturday  after  their  death,  will  descend  to 
purgatory,  and  deliver  those  whom  I  shall 
find  there  and  take  them  up  to  the  holy 
mountain  of  eternal  life?" — "What  Rome 
Teaches,"  page  193. 

(16) 


nearer  to  me  and  make  me  this  last  prom- 
ise! Avoid1  those  heretics!  And  one  thing 
more,  when  I  am  gone,  wilt  -tihou  take  this 
little  crucifix  which  has  hung  on  my  bosom 
all  these  years  and  wear  it  on  thine  own 
heart?  It  will  keep  thee  from  harm  and 
it  will  save  thee  from  the  evil  workings 
of  those  heretics." 

"I  will  keep  it,  Uncle;  anid  now  shall  I 
go  and  call  'the  priest  to  hear  thy  last 
confession?" 

"'Nay,  boy,  they  helped  me  not  while  I 
lived,  will  they  help  me  while  I  die? 
There  is  no  one  to  'help  me!"  The  voice 
was  very  weak.  "My  boy,  stay  by  me,  for 
I  am  alone,  alone!" 

The  frightened  iboy  was  kneeling,  sob- 
bing, by  the  bedside.  The  old  man  lay 
quietly,  too  weak  to  speak. 

"Tio,"  said  the  boy,  after  his  sobs  had 
passed.  "Tio,  I  have  listened  to  the 
sitranger.  You  told  me  not  to  listen  to 
him,  so  I  feared  to  tell  you  What  I  had 
done.  My  mother,  too,  and  the  priest  told 
me  not  to  go  near,  but  what  do  I  care!" 
said  the  boy,  throwing  proudly  back  his 
head,  his  dark  eyes  flashing.  "I  went  at 
night,  and  stood  under  his  window  on  the 
street.  I  can  not  tell  you  much  he  said, 
but  he  s/poke  not  of  saints  or  of  the  Holy 
Virgin.  'Jesus  is  the  one  who  saves  us,' 

(17) 


he  said.  And  he  sang  beautiful  words 
about  Jesus  and  about  heaven.  His  voice 
is  soft  and  sad  when  he  sings,  Tio.  I 
wisih  you  could  hear  him.  I  stood  at  the 
door  and  waited  a  moment.  He  came  to 
speak  to  others  who  were  standing  there. 
But  when  he  saw  me  he  smiled  and  said: 
'Yes,  I  remember  you.'  And  he  gave  me 
this  little  paper.  Shall  I  read  it  to  you, 
Tio?" 

The  old  man  was  looking  at  the  boy. 
He  made  no  reply. 

Rndolfo  read  slowly,  spelling  some  of 
the  words. 

'"For  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he 
gave  his  only  begotten  Son,  that  whoso- 
ever believeth  in  him  should  not  perish 
but  'have  everlasting  life." 

"He  that  believeth  on  the  Son  hath  ever- 
lasting life." 

"Neither  is  there  salvation  in  any  other, 
for  there  is  none  other  name  under  heaven, 
gtven  unto  men,  whereby  we  must  be 
sared." 

The   boy  turned   the   card.     "Here   are 
the  words  he  sang,  Tio!" 
"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly. 
Other  refuge  have  I  none, 
Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee." 

"Tio,"   said   the  boy,   raising  his   head, 
(18) 


"nothing  they  say  or  slog  is  about  the 
Holy  Virgin  or  about  the  saints.  It  is  only 
Jesus!  Is  it  true?" 

But  tiie  old  man,  still  looking  at  the  boy, 
only  said,  "I  do  not  know." 

The  following  day  Rudolfo  found  his 
uncle  scarce  able  to  speak.  The  food 
which  the  faithful  Juan  had  brought  was 
refused.  The  old  man  would  have  no  help. 

The  boy  kneeled  by  his  uncle's  bedside. 

"I  went  again  last  night  to  hear  the 
stranger.  I  do  not  care,  though  the  priest 
forbid!"  that  same  fearless  look  leaping 
into  his  eyes.  "And  there  was  another 
man  there,  one  of  our  own  people.  He, 
too,  read  from  the  book.  He,  too,  kneeled 
and  prayed;  but  he  held  no  crucifix  and  he 
called  no  name  of  virgin  or  saint.  I  waited 
again  at  the  door  till  they  both  came. 
The  man  of  our  country  -took  me  by  the 
hand  and  asked  me  my  name.  And  when 
I  told  him  I  was  the  son  of  General  Valen- 
tino he  laughed  and  said,  'Of  course,  my 
boy ;  his  eyes  thou  hast,  and  even  his  same 
proud  hold  of  the  head!  I  knew  thy  father, 
boy, "and  thy  mother!  And  hast  thou  an 
Uncle  Leonardo?'  he  asked.  And  when  I 
told  him  that  thou  wast  sick,  he  said,  'Oh, 
take  me  to  see  him,  boy!'  Shall  I  bring 
him  to  see  thee,  and  dost  thou  know  him, 
Tio?" 

(19) 


The  old  man  mored.  "Yes,"  he  said; 
then  suddenly,  "Oh,  no,  boy!  it  would  not 
do.  I  am  afraid!"  he  whispered. 

"Uncle,  you  fear  the  priests  here!  But 
I  am  not  afraid!  I  will  bring  him  to- 
night, for  I  promised  him  I  would.  No  one 
shall  see  us,  so  do  not  fear,  Tio  mio!" 

Through  the  long  hours  lay  the  dying 
man,  waiting.  Life  was  very  feeble,  but 
his  mind  still  active.  Very  quiet  it  was. 
in  that  little  back  room,  but  the  sick  man 
still  could  hear  the  voice  of  his  boy. 
"There  is  no  other  name — there  is  no  other 
name — Jesus,  let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly." 

Dusk  was  sifting  over  the  town,  men  re- 
turning to  their  homes.  But  no  one  took 
special  note  of  two  figures,  a  man  and  a 
boy,  as  they  moved  silently  along  the 
narrow  back  lane,  opened  the  back  court 
gate,  crossed  the  yard  to  the  door  of  the 
"old  crazy  monk  of  Calistro." 

Only  the  light  of  -the  moon  shone  through 
the  little  grated  window.  The  incomer 
leaned  low  to  look  into  the  face  of  the 
dying  man,  for  not  even  in  the  clear  light 
of  day  would  one  have  guessed  that  tihe 
tlhin,  worn  face  upon  the  hard  pillow  was 
once  the  young  man  Leonardo. 

The  visitor  spoke  his  name.  The  dying 
man  heard  the  voice,  raised  his  hand  and 
whispered: 

(20) 


"Felipe!  my  old  friend  Felipe!"  Then 
Felipe  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  the  boy 
kneeled  on  the  floor,  and  the  dying  man 
and  the  boy  listened  while  Felipe  .talked. 
He  spoke  of  the  years  that  had  passed 
when  they  were  boys  together.  He  told 
of.  the  new  and  blessed  life  which  had 
been  his  since  he  had  found  his  Jesus; 
the  story  of  the  cross,  so  familiar  to  the 
dying  monk,  but  never  told  like  this;  the 
sacrifice,  so  full  and  complete,  that  there 
was  no  longer  need  for  penance,  for  inter- 
cedence  of  priest,  saint  or  virgin. 

Slowly  and  feebly  the  old  man's  eyes 
moved  from  the  pictures  of  saints,  dimly 
outlined  on  the  walls,  to  the  image  of  the 
Virgin,  then  rested  upon  the  little  wooden 
cross.  "And  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up  from  the 
earth,  will  draw  all  men  unto  me!"  softly 
repeated  Felipe. 

The  pictures  and  the  image  seemed  to 
fade  from  before  the  dying  man.  Only 
the  cross  was  visible.  And  then,  only  him 
upon  the  cross,  no  longer  crucified,  but 
glorified,  waiting,  with  welcome  in  his 
face,  and  saying,  as  Felipe  repeated: 

"Come  unto  me  and  I  will  give  thee  rest 
— rest!" 

Long  time  talked  Felipe,  in  low  tones, 
the  dying  man  and  the  boy  still  listening. 

At  length  Felipe  said,  "To-morrow  I  go 

(21) 


away.  But  we  shall  both  meet  again  where 
we  shall  be  at  rest.  I  leave  with  you  this 
little  book,  God's  Word,  the  New  Testa- 
ment of  his  love.  Your  boy  will  read  it 
to  you  when  I  am  gone." 

When  the  servant  came  the  next  morn- 
irg,  he  saw  the  face  of  the  old  monk  in 
perfect  rest  and  peace.  Rest  and  peace 
which  his  life  of  penance  and  of  works 
never  could  have  earned.  Rest  and  peace 
which  is  the  gift  of  God  through,  his  Son. 

The  little  brazen  crucifix  had  fallen  to 
one  side,  but  on  his  bosom,  resting  under 
those  thin  hands,  lay  Felipe's  gift— the  lit- 
tle New  Testament. 

Instinctively  the  servant  Juan  concealed 
the  little  book  about  his  person,  before 
calling  help. 

The  Superior  came  for  burial  rites,  the 
old  monk's  sister  and  her  boy.  The  boy 
took  with  him  the  little  crucifix  as  he  had 
promised.  There  were  few  ,to  mourn,  and 
few  to  follow,  to  its  resting  place,  the  "old 
crazy  monk  of  Calistro."  But  did  it  mat- 
ter, if  there  was  rejoicing  in  heaven? 


122? 


CHAPTER  III. 
ELENA. 

It  was  the  beautiful  month  of  May.  Al- 
though. in  Western  Mexico  there  are  no 
severe  frosts  to  strip  the  trees,  still  spring 
brings  fresh  green,  and  beautiful  bloom. 
The  houses  of  the  well-to-do  inclose  an  open 
court.  Into  this  <tihe  rooms  of  the  build- 
ings open.  This  courtyard  is  often  filled 
with  beautiful  flowers,  sometimes  a  play- 
ing fountain  of  water  in  the  midst. 

It  was  in  such  a  garden  that  there 
walked,  one  bright  morning  in  May,  a 
slender  young  girl  —  graceful  her  every 
movement,  and  her  black  eyes,  large,  soft 
and  dreamy.  She  paused  a  moment  to 
touch  the  snow  white  "gaTdienia"  and  then 
to  pluck  a  spray  of  the  fragrant  jasmine. 
As  she  stood  a  moment  under  the  olean- 
der, with  its  bright  pink  blossoms,  thte 
street  door  opened.  There  sounded  a  step 
down  through  the  corridor,  into  the  gar- 
den and  to  her  side.  It  was  Rudolfo,  her 
near  neighbor,  and  almost  constant  com- 


"Bienvenida  Rufo!     Dost  thou  remember 
that  this  is  the  month,  of  OUT  Holy  Motiher, 
(23) 


the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  the  month  of  her 
beautiful  flowers?  I  go  to-morrow  to  the 
great  Cathedral  to  carry  her  my  offering  of 
flowers,  pure  and  white,  like  herself.  Thou 
wilt  be  there  of  course,  Rufo?"  The  girl 
turned  toward  her  friend. 
"Cierto,  Elenita,  if  tihou  art  to  be  there!" 
Rudolfo  stood  the  next  morning  among  the 
spectators  and  watched  the  girls,  Elena 
among  them,  beautiful  in  their  white 
dresses  amid  fluttering  ribbons.  He  saw 
them  kneeling  to  lay  their  gifts  of  flowers 
before  the  large,  painted  and  gilded  image 
of  the  Virgin.  He  heard  the  soft  chant- 
ing and  the  'reciting  of  the  prayers  by  the 
priests.  The  odor  of  the  burning  incense 
filled  his  nostrils.  His  senses  were 
charmed,  sight,  hearing  and  smell.  He 
stood,  looked  and  listened,  yet,  boy  as  he 
was,  he  felt  that  something  was  lacking — 
something,  he  knew  not  what.  There 
seemed  to  come  between  him,  and  the  glit- 
ter about  him,  the  little  room  on  the  street 
corner,  where  there  were  no  bright  col- 
ors, no  gaily-painted  images.  The  priests 
were  chanting  "Holy  Mary!  All  power  is 
given  to  thee,  in  heaven  and  in  earth! 
There  is  no  one,  O  most  Holy  Mary,  who 
can  know  God  but  through  thee.  No  one 
is  saved  but  -through  thee!"  The  boy  lis- 
tening, thought  of  the  words  he  had  heard 

(24) 


the  night  before.  The  miseionairy  had 
ssid,  "Je&us  is  the  one  who  saves!  There 
is  no  other  name  whereby  man  can  be 
saved!"  And  the  boy  wondered  as  'he  lis- 
tened and  remembered. 

That  afternoon,  the  two,  the  boy  and 
the  girl,  were  standing  again  among  the 
flowers.  "How  lovely  it  was!"  exclaimed 
Elena.  "I  know  the  Holy  Virgin  has  ac- 
cepted my  offering.  She  will  protect  my 
life  and  she  will  save  my  soul." 

"It  is  Jesus  who  saves,"  said  the  boy 
quietly. 

Elena  turned  sharply  upon  him.  "What 
dost  thou  mean,  Rufo?  It  is  blasphemy  to 
talk  so.  They  say  the  heretics  thus  blas- 
pheme our  Holy  Virgin.  Hast  thou  been 
listening  to  those  heretics?" 

The  boy  raised  his  head  proudly  and 
smiled. 

"Tell  me,  Rufo,  hast  thou  been  listening 
to  those  Protestants?" 

"Yes,  I  have  listened  to  them,  and 
talked  with  them,"  said  the  boy,  still  hold- 
ing himself  proudly  before  her.  "They 
do  not  blaspheme  the  Holy  Virgin!  They 
are  good  people!" 

"Dost  thou  not  fear?  Thou  knowest 
what  the  Holy  Fathers  have  told  us  about 
them." 

"I  fear?"  laughed  the  proud  boy.  '*Never!" 

(25) 


She  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  at  him. 
Them,  suddenly,  as  if  seeming  unwilling 
that  her  companion  should  possess  a 
secret  which  she  did  not  share,  she  said, 
"Cierto,  hast  thou  talked  with  the  Protest- 
ant priest?  Tell  me  about  him.  And 
what  does  he  say?" 

Then  he  told  her  of  what  he  knew,  but, 
instinctively,  withheld  the  account  of  that 
night's  visit  with  Felipe  at  his  uncle's 
dying  bed. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  the  girl.  "I  would 
fear  to  listen  to  the  stranger,  but  I  would 
like  'to  hear  him  sing!" 

"Then  go  with  me  tonight!  I  will  ac- 
company thee.  We  will  stand  on  the  street 
and  listen  «und  no  one  shall  know!" 

But  not  until  several  nights  had  passed 
did  the  timid  girl  finally  consent.  It  was 
already  dark  and  Rudolfo  found  her  wait- 
ing in  the  front  doorway,  her  head  and 
shoulders  well  wrapped  in  her  silk  "rebo- 
zo"  (shawl).  Yet  even  then  she  would 
retract  her  promise,  but  the  boy,  seizing 
heir  arm,  forced  her  along  by  his  side, 
down  the  street,  till  they  stood  on  the 
sidewalk  under  the  window. 

There  were  numbers  in  the  room.  Many 
standing  in  the  doorway  and  under  the 
window,  and  the  children  were  not  no- 
ticed. 

(26) 


But  did  the  missionary  know,  as  lie 
talked,  that  two  of  God's  little  ones  were 
waiting'  without?  "Suffer  little  ohliMnen 
to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not, ' 
he  said.  "Jesus  calls  them!  Jesus  loves 
the  little  ones,"  he  said,  and  then  sang 
in  a  soft  voice. 

"I  think  when  I  read  that  sweet  story  of 
old, 

When  Jesus  was  here  among  men, 
How  he  called  little  children 

Like  lambs  to  his  fold,"  etc. 

The  two  listening  there  had  not  noticed 
a  man  in  common  working  clothes  wiho  had 
followed  tiiem  along  the  street  and  who 
had  been  standing  by  them.  When  they 
turned  to  go,  the  man  spoke,  for  it  was 
the  old  servant  Juan,  from  Rudolfo's  home. 

"Young  master,  this  is  not  the  first 
time  I  have  seen  you  here.  But  fear  not. 
I  carry  no  tales." 

"I  do  not  feair,"  interrupted  the  boy. 

"Keep  by  me,"  added  the  old  man.  "You 
must  return,  for  we  may  be  missed  at 
home." 

"Not  until  I  speak  to  the  man,"  boldly 
said  the  boy,  dirawing  the  girl  with  him 
to  the  doorway,  where  stood  the  mission- 
ary speaking  to  those  about  him. 

"My  young  friend  again!"  said  the  good 


man,  taking  the  boy  by  the  hand.  "Is 
this  your  sister?" 

"No,  senior,  my  friend  Elena."  The  timid 
girl  had  not  da-red  raise  her  eyes,  but  when 
the  missionary  took  the  little  trembling 
hands  in  hie,  she  met  his  smile  with  hers. 

"God  bless  you  both,"  was  all  he  said. 

And  then  he  turned  to  the  servant  Juan. 

"I  have  seen  you  several  times  here. 
Will  you  not  come  in  the  next  time?" 
Silently  the  old  servant  walked  behind 
the  two. 

"I  do  not  understand  it  very  much,"  said 
the  girl,  "but  I  like  the  singing,  and  I  like 
the  Protestant  priest,  too.  I  wonder  why 
we  must  not  like  him!" 

The  boy  made  no  reply.  He,  too,  was 
wondering.  "Step  into  your  own  door, 
young  master,"  said  Juan.  "I  will  accom- 
pany the  miss  to  her  home." 

But  there  was  company  in  the  brightly- 
lighted  "sala"  in  Elena's  home;  guests 
were  dancing  to  the  sound  of  music,  and 
Elena  slipped  through  the  conridor,  unno- 
ticed, to  her  own  room. 


(28) 


CHAPTER  IV. 
PURGATORY. 

There  was  sadness  in  the  great  house 
of  General  Valentino.  He  had  been  brought 
home  wounded  in  battle.  'Commanding  his 
troops  while  repulsing  an  attacking  tribe 
of  Indians  on  the  frontier,  he  hal  been 
seriously  hurt.  He  was  carried  to  his 
home,  but  the  tedious  travel  and  exposure 
inevitably  had  its  effect.  All  that  physi- 
cians and  loving  friends  could  do  had  been 
in  vain,  and  now  the  brave  soldier  lay 
dying. 

The  physician  had  given  place  to  the 
priest.  The  sick  man  had  listened  passive- 
ly to  the  words  of  his  dying  confession 
which  the  priest  had  spoken,  for  the  man 
had  been  too  weak  to  utter  them  himself. 
The  sign  of  the  Holy  Cross  had  been  made 
upon  his  forehead,  and  he  had  been  anoint- 
ed with  the  holy  oil.  He  heard  the  words 
of  the  priest.  "Yo  te  absuelvo!'  (I  ab- 
solve thee!) 

The  priest  had  gone,  and  now  the  dying 
man  aroused  himself. 

"Bring  my  boy  to  me  and  leave  us  here 
alone!" 

(  29  ) 


Rudolfo  kneeled,  weeping,  by  the  bedaide. 
"My  eon,  I  had  hoped  to  see  thee  take  my 
place.  There  are  many  battles  yet  to  be 
fought  for  our  Mexico,  and  them  wilt  be 
needed."  The  words  were  spoken  slowly. 
"Yes,  my  son,  thou  wilt  be  needed.  Nor 
are  the  battles  all  to  be  with  sword  and 
shot.  I  see  strife  of  other  sort  ahead  for 
our  own  land,  and  thou  must  be  called  to 
lead  it  on."  His  father  paused. 

"My  boy,  I  have  been  watching  thee.  I 
have  known  how  thou  hast  been  attracted 
toward  the  Protestants.  They  are  right, 
my  boy;  stay  by  them,"  he  added  as  the 
boy  started  and  raised  his  head.  "I  knew 
them  and  respected  them  when  a  young 
man  in  Mexico  City.  I  knew  they  were 
right,  but  I  came  here,  I  forgot  them,  and 
forgot  their  teachings.  I  became  a  cow- 
ard. I,  who  feared  not  the  cannon's  mouth, 
feared  a  woman,  feared  her  laugh  and  ridi- 
cule, your  mother,  Rudolfo.  And  I  have 
lived  a  life  of  falsehood.  But  thou,  my 
boy,  be  brave,  for  in  the  struggle  thou  wilt 
be  needed." 

It  was  a  very  imposing  burial  service, 
conducted  in  the  cathedral,  and  the  pro- 
cession was  long  that  followed  to  its  rest- 
ing place  the  earthly  remains  of  the  famous 
and  brave  General  Valentino.  The  boy,  fol- 
lowing sadly,  remembered  the  quiet,  un- 
(30) 


noticed  laying  away  of  his  uncle,  the  old 
monk,  and  again  he  wondered. 

The  days  of  mourning  were  over.  The 
widow,  the  Senora  de  Valentino,  lived  alone 
in  her  quiet  house,  with  the  servants  and 
with  the  boy,  for  her  two  daughters  had 
long  since  gone  to  distant  homes  of  their 
own.  Rudolfo  was  growing  so  tall,  so 
handsome,  so  like  his  father.  Proudly  she 
looked  upon  him,  and  fondly  she  loved 
him. 

One  day  a  message  of  great  importance 
was  sent  to  the  Senora  de  Valentino.  It 
had  been  revealed  that  the  spirit  of  the 
departed  General  Valentino  was  still  in 
purgatory  awaiting  further  prayers  and 
gifts  of  money  to  effect  his  release. 

The  widow  pleaded  her  departed  hus- 
band's deeds  of  bravery,  his  generous  gifts, 
when  living,  to  the  Church.  "Yes,"  was 
the  reply;  his  gifts  and  the  gifts  of  the 
widow,  made  at  the  time  of  his  death  for 
the  release  of  his  soul,  had  been  accepted; 
but  they  were  not  enough.  During  the  life- 
time of  her  husband,  he  had  lacked  a  spirit 
or"  entire  submission  to  the  teachings  of 
the  Holy  Church,  and  a  lack  of  reverence 
for  her  doctrine.  For  this  reason  a  still 
larger  sum  of  money  would  be  required, 
and  would  the  widow  furnish  the  means 
whereby  to  communicate  with  the  Holy 
(31) 


Virgin?  "Thou  dost  know,  daughter,"  add- 
ed the  priest,  "that  many  things  are  asked 
from  God  and  are  not  granted;  they  are 
asked  from  Mary  and  are  granted.  And 
how  is  this?  It  is  because  God  has  thus 
decreed  in  honor  of  his  Mother."  "Mary 
co-operated  in  the  salvation  of  man." 
"Mary  was  made  the  mistress  of  salva- 
tion." (These  words  are  taken  literally 
from  "Glories  of  Mary.") 

When  asked  the  sum  that  would  be  re- 
quired, the  reply  was:  "Because  of  the 
deep  esteem  in  which  the  departed  is  held, 
and  because  of  the  deep  esteem  in  which 
the  widow  lives,  the  low  sum  of  four  thou- 
sand dollars  will  be  required." 

When  the  Senora  said  that  such  a  sum 
she  could  not  command,  the  answer  was 
ready:  "It  matters  not,  daughter.  It's 
equivalent  will  do.  This  house  you  live  in 
can  easily  be  transferred  to  the  name  and 
the  use  of  the  Church.  But  there  need  be 
no  haste,  daughter.  Take  thine  own  time 
to  find  another  house,  and  meantime  sup- 
plications will  be  made  for  thy  departed 
husband's  speedy  release  into  glory." 

The  high-spirited  boy  was  beside  himself 
with  wrath. 

"The  Church  commands,  and  we  must 
obey,"  was  all  the  proud,  though  broken 
woman  could  reply.  Then,  for  the  first 
(32) 


time,  the  boy  told  his  mother  of  his  father's 
dying  words,  and  of  the  occasion  attend- 
ance upon  the  preaching  of  the  Protestant. 
He  begged  her  to  go  with  him  to  listen, 
but  she  seemed  only  the  more  broken,  and 
besought  'him  not  to  bring  further  sorrow 
and  disgrace  by  associating  with  the 
heretics. 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  widow,  her  boy  and 
her  faithful  Juan  had  found  another  house, 
a  smaller  one,  and  the  great  home  of  the 
Valentines  had  passed  into  the  safe  keep- 
ing of  the  Holy  Church, 


CHAPTER  V. 
THE  YOUNG  PBIEST. 

One  day,  when  the  Senora  de  Valentino 
was  seeking  absolvence  of  guilt,  at  the  con- 
fessional, the  man,  her  holy  confessor,  be- 
gan to  question  her  regarding  her  son. 

"Thou  hast  good  reason,  daughter,  to  be 
proud  of  the  young  man.  How  handsome 
he  is,  how  daring,  and  what  talent  he  pos- 
sesses! Hast  thou  thought  to  what  his 
talents  shall  be  given?  Thou  dost  know, 
daughter,  that  there  is  no  higher  use  for 
talents,  such  as  his,  than  the  service  of 
our  Holy  Church.  I  know  thy  heart,  and 
that  thou  dost  wish  to  dedicate  him  to  such 
service.  He  is  now  entering  manhood,  and 
it  is  high  time  to  work  in  preparation  for 
such  high  calling." 

"But,  Feather,"  faltered  the  woman,  "his 
father's  wish  was  that  he  should  follow 
in  his  own  steps." 

"Ah,  yes,  daughter,  I  know  that  was  well. 
But  think!  Little  dost  thou  know  the  honor, 
the  powers  of  the  priesthood.  Woman,  let 
me  repeat.  What  are  the  powers  of  priest- 
hood? 

"I.  To  say  mass. 


"II.  To  forgive  sins. 

"III.  To  preach  the  word  of  God,  and  per- 
form other  sacerdotal  functions. 

"In  order  to  give  to  his  priests  the  power 
of  saying  mass,  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  had 
to  die.  To  redeem  the  world,  it  was  not 
necessary  that  our  Lord  should  die.  A  sin- 
gle drop  of  his  sacred  blood,  a  single  tear, 
a  single  prayer  of  his,  would  have  sufficed, 
but  in  order  to  establish  the  priesthood 
our  Lord  had  to  die. 

"Who  can  forgive  sins? 

"There  is  a  man  on  earth  who  can  for- 
give sins,  and  that  man  is  the  Catholic 
priest.  Yes,  the  priest  not  only  declares 
that  the  sinner  is  forgiven,  but  he  really 
f 01  gives  him. 

"So  great  is  tne  power  of  the  priest  that 
the  judgments  of  heaven  itself  are  subject 
to  his  decisions.  The  priest  absolves  on 
earth  and  God  absolves  in  heaven. 

"The  priest  is  the  co-operator,  the  assist- 
ant of  God  in  heaven."  (These  words  are 
quoted  from  "God  the  Teacher  of  Man- 
kind."—Michael  Muller.)  "But  thou  dost 
know  all  this.  And  more — the  Holy  Church 
has  need  of  thy  son  and  all  his  talents. 
And  to  this  end  he  must  be  placed  in  train- 
ing. He  must  become  an  inmate  of  the 
Bishop's  College  of  Training  for  the  priest- 
hood." 

(36) 


The  father  confessor  did  not  add  that 
he  was  aware  of  the  growing  acquaint- 
ance of  the  young  man  with  the  accursed 
Protestantism,  and  that  this  or  some  other 
step  would  be  forced  upon  him  to  break 
him  from  such  influences. 

"But,  Father,"  sobbed  the  broken  wom- 
an, "he  is  my  son,  my  only  son.  I  need 
him!  How  can  I  live  without  him!" 

"Daughter,"  said  the  man  coldly,  "thou 
dost  forget  that  the  Holy  Church  can  more 
than  make  up  to  thee  the  sacrifice  of  thy 
son.  Thy  reward  will  be  great  in  this  life 
and  in  that  to  come!" 


"Never  for  me,  mother,  the  life  of  a 
prating  priest!  Never!"  cried  the  young 
man,  his  eyes  blazing  and  his  voice 
trembling  with  wrath,  when  later  the 
mother  presented  the  subject  to  him. 

"Not  the  black  robe  for  me!  Not  the 
confessional  box!  My  father's  life  for  me. 
A  soldier's  life  for  me!" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  mother  sadly,  "I  know 
thy  fatherrs  wish,  and  thou  .  rt  so  like  him, 
too!  But,  son,  to  serve  our  Church  is 
nobler,  even,  than  to  serve  our  country!" 

The  proud  young  man  refused.  Then 
followed  days  and  weeks  of  entreaty  from 
his  mother,  and  flattery  and  promises  from 
(36) 


the  priest.  How — he  did  not  know — but  at 
last  he  yielded,  surrendered  himself  un- 
willingly to  the  life  he  hated.  He  said  to 
himself  he  would  try  it  for  a  while;  he 
could  leave  it  when  he  chose.  The  school 
of  Calistro,  his  uncle's  old  home,  became 
now  his  home.  The  little  brazen  crucifix, 
bequeathed  him  by  his  uncle,  he  now  wore 
upon  his  bosom.  His  life  seemed  a  mock- 
ery, yet  as  time  wore  on,  the  flattery  and 
homage  shrewdly  bestowed  had  its  effect, 
and  he  became  seemingly  contented,  or  at 
least  unresisting. 

He  visited  his  mother,  she  growing  sad 
in  her  loneliness  and  because  promises  for 
peace  of  mind  were  unfulfilled. 

At  such  times  he  usually  gained  brief 
interviews  with  Elena. 

And  so  the  months  grew  into  years.  The 
life  of  confinement  was  irksome  to  his 
active  temperament.  He  had  time  for  re- 
flection, for  the  studies  were  not  pressing, 
neither  did  they  feed  mental  cravings. 

Readings  and  the  committal  to  memory 
of  the  lives  of  the  saints;  the  doctrines. of 
the  Church  and  the  traditions,  followed  by 
discussions  with  the  father  instructors,  or 
rather  by  lectures  from  them,  were  the 
principal  requirements.  Frequent  readings 
of  the  Breviary  and  attendance  upon  the 
different  religious  exercises  in  the  college 
(37) 


chapel  were  also  required.  The  Bible  was 
in  the  building,  in  three  large  volumes,  con- 
taining full  notes  or  expos' tions.  These 
\vere  kept  under  particular  care,  none  of 
the  younger  students  being  allowed  to  open 
them,  unless  by  special  permission,  when 
the  priest  was  there  to  give  the  correct  in- 
terpretations thereof. 

There  were  times  when  the  young  priest 
loathed  his  surroundings  and  himself.  At 
such  times  he  did  not  fear  to  express  his 
contempt,  though,  of  course,  somewhat 
guardedly. 

The  Superiors,  realizing  their  weak  hold 
on  the  youth,  and  realizing  his  value  to 
themselves,  made  light  of  his  "pretended 
insubordination."  In  the  class  room  free- 
dom of  speech,  on  his  part,  was  allowed, 
such  as  would  be  permitted  from  no  other. 
The  young  man,  fully  aware  of  this  tolera- 
tion, took  for  himself  all  such  advantages. 
Frequent  discussions,  like  the  following, 
occurred : 

"Is  it  true,  Father,  that  there  is  no  sal- 
vation outside  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church?" 

"Truth,  indeed,  my  son!" 

"And  why?" 

"Because  without  divine  faith  no  salva- 
tion is  possible,  and  as  divine  faith  is  to 

(38) 


be  found  alone  in  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  therefore  salvation  is  possible  only 
in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church." 

"Then  can  not  a  Protestant  be  saved?" 

"No,  because  they  have  no  faith  in  the 
teaching  of  the  Holy  Church;  indeed,  they 
reject  all  her  doctrines,  therefore  salvation 
to  them  is  impossible.  And  more,  they  are 
not  willing  to  confess  their  sins  to  the 
priest,  therefore  their  sins  shall  not  be 
forgiven;  how,  then,  can  they  be  saved?' 

"Another  question,  Father;  the  Prot- 
estants say  the  Bible  is  the  Word  of  God, 
and  they  freely  distribute  the  book  for  all 
to  read.  Is  the  Bible  the  Word  of  God? 
And  if  so,  why  does  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  prohibit  its  reading?" 

"Yes,  the  Bible  is  the  holy  Word  of  God, 
but  here  again  the  Protestants  show  their 
wicked  audacity  by  freely  circulating  it. 
The  Bible  was  not  prepared  or  intended 
for  the  laity.  It  was  intrusted  to  the  holy 
fathers,  by  the  apostles,  to  be  kept  by  them 
and  by  them  to  be  interpreted.  Because 
of  its  much  obscenity,  it  is  not  a  fit  book 
for  women  or  children,  and  because  of  its 
much  obscurity,  it  can  not  be  understood 
by  the  common  people.  It  can  only  be  read 
to  them  by  the  priest  who  can  rightly  ex- 
plain its  meaning." 

(39) 


"Then  the  Bible  is  not  a  necessary 
book?" 

"No,  the  Bible  is  not  necessary.  Wer« 
it  to  be  entirely  destroyed  from  the  face 
of  the  earth,  it  would  not  matter.  The 
Holy  Church,  by  revelations,  and  traditions, 
has  all  the  necessary  truth,  and  by  faith 
in  the  truth  which  she  teaches,  is  salva- 
tion found.  Thy  questions  savor  of  heresy 
and  blasphemy.  Thou  hast  had  knowledge 
of  these  pestilential  Protestants  and  their 
teachings.  Avoid  these  heretics;  they  are 
an  unholy  sect,  following  the  teachings  of 
their  leader  and  originator,  Martin  Luther, 
that  licentious  monk,  who  broke  from  the 
Holy  Church  because  he  wished  to  marry." 

"Then  is  it  a  sin  to  marry?' 

"It  is  a  sin  for  a  priest  to  marry.  Celib- 
acy is  a  more  perfect  state  than  that  of 
marriage,  and  the  priest  is  the  example 
of  that  which  is  the  most  perfect.  That 
is  one  of  the  great  sins  of  the  Protestant. 
By  his  unholy  life  he  encourages  polygamy 
and  concubinage!" 

"Does  he  encourage  it  more  than  the 
impure  priest  in  his  secret  immoral  life?" 
asked  the  young  man,  a  blaze  in  his  eyes. 

"Cease  thy  blasphemy!"  retorted  the  old 
priest,  turning  upon  him. 

"Yet  one  more  question!"  interrupted  the 
young  man,  restraining  himself. 
(40) 


"Is  it  true  that  in  the  sacrifice  of  the 
holy  mass,  the  body  of  Christ  exists  literal- 
ly, flesh  and  blood?' 

"It  is  true,  because  the  Church  BO 
teaches." 

"Then  I  pray  thee  explain  still  further. 
The  other  day  when  Father  A was  of- 
fering the  holy  mass,  he  dropped  a  holy 
wafer  on  the  floor.  It  was  not  taken  up. 
A  few  hours  later  I  had  occasion  to  return 
to  the  altar,  when  on  looking  on  the  floor, 
where  had  fallen  the  piece  of  bread,  I  saw 
the  ants  carrying  it  off  in  crumbs.  Would 
that  have  been  permitted  to  the  literal 
nesh  of  Christ?" 

"Enough!"  and  with  a  frown  and  a  stamp 
of  the  foot  the  caviling  young  priest  was 
dismissed. 


CHAPTER.  VI. 

JUAN. 

The  missionary  meantime,  had  been 
obliged  to  seek  another  house,  the  owner 
refusing  longer  to  rent  to  the  Protestante. 

"This  is  a  part  of  our  life  and  work 
here,"  said  the  good  man  to  his  wife.  "By 
moving  to  different  parts  of  the  town,  we 
learn  to  know  the  people  and  they  us, 
thus  removing  deep  fear  and  prejudice." 
There  had,  thus  far,  been  no  open  attack 
upon  (the  life  of  the  missionary;  and  in- 
sults, threats,  difficulty  in  obtaining  needed 
help  or  frequent  inability  to  purchase 
needed  supplies,  he  looked  upon  as  matters 
of  small  import. 

"To  wait  and  to  win"  had  become  his 
motto.  Still  he  knew  the  cunning  watch- 
fulness of  the  priests,  and  while  he  prayed 
and  waited  he  watched. 

As  the  years  passed,  fear  and  prejudice 
were  breaking  down,  and  the  room  fitted 
up  (for  preaching  services  was  filled.  The 
listeners  were  mostly  from  the  humble 
class,  for  th«y  were  less  watched  and  fol- 
(42) 


lowed  by  priests.     And  of  such  were  also 
the  Masters  disciples  of  old. 

Juan,  the  long  time  servant  in  the  house 
of  Valentino  since  the  night  when  he  stood 
and  listened,  with  the  boy  and  the  girl, 
under  the  window,  had  continued  his  at- 
tendance. Fearlessly  now,  he  entered  and 
sat  among  the  rest.  The  little  book,  the 
New  Testament,  which  he  had  found  upon 
the  dead  monk's  bosom,  he  kept  close  by 
him.  He  had,  at  first,  feared  to  open  the 
forbidden  book.  But  as  he  read,  the  spirit 
of  God  which  hovers  round  the  searcher 
for  the  truth  illumined  and  made  plain 
its  meaning.  He  loved  to  read  his  Bible 
and  he  loved  to  listen  to  its  teachings  as 
given  by  the  missionary. 

The  new,  warm  love  burning  within  him 
could  not  be  hid.  He  carried  its  bright- 
ness into  other  ihearts;  first  into  the  hearts 
of  his  two  friends,  Pepe  and  his  wife,  the 
servants  of  the  Senora  de  Corona,  Elena's 
mother.  The  Senora  de  Corona  and  the 
Senora  de  Valentino  knew  that  their  serv- 
ants were  being  drawn  toward  the  new 
doctrine  of  the  Proitestants.  B<ut  their 
servants  were  as  indispensable  to  them  as 
were  the  roofs  that  covered  their  heads. 
Therefore,  as  they  received  no  word  from 
the  priests  to  dismiss  these  servants  they 
chose  to  ignore  the  matter. 
(48) 


But  the  missionary  knew  that  the  time 
had  come  when  the  few  tried  and  true 
must  be  called  out  into  a  visible  ohurcsh 
of  Christ.  Old  Juan,  Pepe,  his  wife  and 
a  few  others  were  to  be  received  into 
church  membership.  It  was  at  a  prepara- 
tory service,  and  the  room  was  full  of 
listeners,  many  there  from  curiosity.  They 
had  sung: 

"Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 
All  to  leave  and  follow  thee." 

"Brothers,"  said  the  missionary,  stand- 
ing before  them.  "You  know  that  Jesus, 
wihen  here  upon  earth,  called  Ms  own  to 
follow  him.  Many  left  home  and  lands  to 
be  with  their  Master. 

"He,  just  as  truly,  calls  us  ito-day  to 
follow  him.  You  may  not  meed  to  leave 
home  and  lands.  Yet  you  know  what 
it  will  mean,  here  in  Mexico,  to  follow  him. 
You  know  also  that  he  said:  'He  that 
loveth  father  and  mother  more  than  me 
is  not  worthy  of  me,  and  he  that  loveth 
son  or  daughter  more  than  me  is  not 
worthy  of  me.'  But  he  says,  too:  'Who- 
ever shall  confess  me  before  men,  him  will 
I  also  confess  before  my  Father  which  is 
in  heaven.'  You  know  what  it  will  mean 
here  to  confess  him  before  men.  Some- 
(44) 


times  it  means  the  giving  up  of  all  that 
life  holds  dear.  Sometimes  it  means  the 
giving  up  of  life  itself.  God  grant  it  may 
not  mean  such  to  any  of  you,  but  it  will 
mean  the  giving  up  of  friends,  of  employ- 
ment and  perhaps  of  homes.  But  then, 
listen!"  added  the  missionary,  a  glad  Light 
in  his  voice.  "Listen!  Do  we  fear?  Nay, 
rather  we  say:  'Who  shall  separate  us 
from  the  love  of  Christ?  Shall  tribulation, 
or  distress,  or  persecution,  or  famine,  or 
nakedness,  or  peril,  or  sword?' 

"I  am  persuaded  that  neither  death,  nor 
life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor 
powers,  nor  things  present  nor  things  to 
come,  nor  .height,  nor  depth,  nor  any  othei 
creature,  shall  be  able  to  separate  us  from 
the  love  of  God  which  is  in  Christ  Jesus, 
our  Lord.  Can  we  say  this,  my  friends? ' 

"Amen!"  was  the  low  spoken  but  heart- 
felt reply  of  each. 

The  service,  on  the  Sunday  following, 
was  a  quiet  but  impressive  one.  But  that 
nigM,  on  returning  ito  his  home,  his  mis- 
tress called  her  servant  Juan  into  her 
room.  "I  am  told  that  this  day  thou  didst 
identify  thyself  with  the  Protestantes.  Is 
it  true?" 

"The  Senora  has  heard  aright,"  was  the 
quiet  but  respectful  reply. 

"Art  thou  aware  that  by  thus  doing 
(45) 


thou  hast  forfeited  the  shelter  of  this,  thy 
home?" 

"Yes,  Senora,"  said  the  old  man. 

"But  surely,  Juan,  thou  hast  not  con- 
sidered! Think  of  /this  to-night,  and  to- 
morrow morning  come  and  tell  me  thou 
dost  repent." 

But,  on  the  morrow,  neither  threats  nor 
persuasion  could  avail.  The  old  man  tried 
to  tell  his  well-loved  mistress  of  the  glad, 
new  life  that  was  his.  But  she  dared  not 
listen,  and  though  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes,  she  turned  from  her  service  her 
well-tried  and  faithful  servant,  because  the 
priest  had  so  commanded  and  she  must 
obey. 

But  news  of  what  had  been  done  had 
come  to  Rudolfo  in  his  school.  The  moth- 
er did  not  know,  neither  did  the  priest 
know,  that  the  young  man  sought  out  his 
faithful  Juan  and  secured  for  him  a  little 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  .the  town,  where 
he  could  live  with  his  friends,  Pepe  and 
wife,  who  also  had  been  turned  from 
home.  Rudolfo  knew  that  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult for  Juan  to  obtain  work.  He  left 
money  with  him  saying:  "Do  not  fear, 
my  Juan.  Thou  hast  ever  cared  for  me, 
and  now  I  will  care  that  thou  dost  not 
suffer.  Tell  m«  when  thou  art  in  need!" 

"Oh,  young  master!"  said  the  old  man, 
(46) 


"ever  kind  and  true!  Yet  thou  dost  lack 
the  one  tiling.  Come  thou  also  and  con- 
fess Christ.  Leave  that  false  life!" 

"Perhaps,  after  a  while,  later  on,  when 
1  am  older!"  said  the  young  man  gaily. 


(47) 


CHAPTER  VH. 
THE  WORD  OP  GOD. 

It  was  a  little  adobe  house  of  two  low 
rooms.  They  were  unplastered,  the  un- 
covered rafters  overhead  roughly  hewn. 
The  floor  was  the  ground,  but  it  was  hard, 
smooth  and  well  swept.  In  the  little  en- 
closed back  yard  walked  an  old  woman, 
singing  in  a  low  voice.  This  corral  was 
her  kitchen,  and  she  was  preparing  the 
noon  meal.  She  stooped  over  the  little 
charcoal  fire  on  the  ground,  placing  on  the 
coals  her  flat  earthen  griddle,  on  which 
she  was  to  bake  her  tortillas  (corn  cakes). 
She  was  enveloped,  head  and  shoulders, 
in  her  rebozo  (long  cotton  shawl).  .She 
had  just  seated  herself  on  the  ground, 
and  drawn  to  herself  the  flat  stone  on 
which  the  corn  is  ground,  when  the  street 
door  opened  and  in  walked  a  slender  girl 
of  near  eighteen  years. 

"Queridita!  Alma  mia!"  exclaimed  the 
old  woman  rising,  approaching  the  girl,  and 
taking  one  little  hand  between  her  own. 
"Are  all  well  at  home?  And  where  is 
Sara?"  The  girl  wore  no  hat  to  remove, 
but  she  let  fall  over  her  shoulders  her 
(48) 


long  black  lace  veil  with  which  her  head 
had  been  enveloped,  and  sat  down  upon 
the  little  stool. 

"Mamacita  is  well,"  was  the  reply,  "and 
Sara  has  gone  on  to  her  brothers.  She 
will  call  for  me  in  an  hour!"  Sara  was 
the  maid,  for  no  girl  of  the  better  class  is 
allowed  to  walk  the  street  unaccompanied 
by  mother,  friend  or  maid. 

The  girl  was  Elena,  and  the  old  woman 
was  her  nurse,  who  had  been  turned  from 
her  home.  Elena  watched  as  she  molded 
bits  of  the  dough,  patting  and  flattening 
them  into  thin  cakes,  and  then  with  her 
fingers  deftly  turning  them  on  the  heated 
griddle.  "And  now  a  tortilla  for  me!" 
laughed  the  girl,  as  she  took  one  steam- 
ing from  the  pile,  and  the  old  nurse  hur- 
ried to  bring  the  only  dishes,  that  the 
girl  might  have  a  taste  of  her  frijoles  and 
a  sip  of  her  black  coffee. 

"It  is  good  to  be  with  you  again,  dear 
old  Nanita!"  exclaimed  the  girl  impul- 
sively. 

"And  how  lonely  I  am  without  thy  beau- 
tiful face,  and  how  I  wish  I  might  see  the 
dear  Madracita!"  replied  the  old  woman. 
"Thy  mother  was  always  good  to  me,  and 
I  had  a  happy  home  there." 

Elena's  mother  had  parted  very  un- 
willingly from  her  faithful  servants.  She 
(49) 

4 


knew  that  her  daughter  occasionally  saw 
her  old  nurse;  Indeed,  she  sometimes  sent 
by  her  some  present,  but  she  did  not 
know  that  her  daughter  frequently  stayed 
long  and  talked  with  the  old  nurse;  for 
Sara,  the  maid,  loved  her  young  mistress, 
and  would  reveal  nothing.  "And  now,  Al- 
ma Mia,  before  you  go,  read  to  me  again 
from  my  little  book.  I  wish  I  could  read 
those  words  myself,  but  after  you  havo 
gone  I  say  them  over  and  over  again,  when 
about  my  work,  or  when  awake  at  night — 
those  beautiful  words!" 

The  little  Bible  was  taken  from  its 
niche  in  the  wall  where  it  was  kept,  care- 
fully wrapped  up  in  a  cloth.  The  girl 
took  the  book  and  read.  "In  my  father's 
house  are  many  mansions.  I  go  to  pre- 
pare a  place  for  you!" 

And  so  the  two  sat,  and  read  and  talked, 
the  girl  fresh  and  beautiful  in  her  young 
life,  and  the  old  woman  sitting  on  the 
floor  by  her  side,  holding  between  her 
brown,  wrinkled  palms  one  soft  little 
hand.  "And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place 
for  you,  I  will  come  again  and  receive 
you  unto  myself,  that  where  I  am  there 
you  may  be  also." 

"1  must  go  now,  for  there  is  Sara  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  and  Juan  and  Pepe  will 
soon  be  here  for  their  dinner." 
(50) 


"Querida,  how  I  thank  thee  for  coming 
to  see  me.  How  I  wish  you  could  go  with 
me  to  hear  the  Protestant  preacher  talk 
and  sing  to  us  of  Jesus  and  of  heaven." 

"I  wish  I  could  go.  But  I  dare  not.  I 
often  think  of  that  time  when  Rudolfo  and 
I  listened  to  him.  Poor  Rufo,  he  is  so 
changed!  But  there  is  a  change  in  me, 
too.  You,  Nanita,  and  that  little  hook,  ai'3 
changing  me,  somehow." 

Elena  was  seated  one  afternoon  in  the 
garden  amid  her  flowers.  The  piece  of 
embroidery  lay  idly  in  her  lap,  for  she 
was  thinking — thinking  of  what  had  been 
coming  into  her  life  the  past  few  months 
since  she  had  been  talking  and  reading 
to  her  old  nurse  from  God's  own  Book. 
She  was  wishing  that  she  dared  talk  to 
her  mother  about  it,  and  that  she  could 
go  to  hear  the  missionary  again.  Her 
thoughts  were  arrested  'by  the  words  of 
her  father  and  mother,  talking  in  a  room 
near  by. 

"Your  husband  is  no  longer  your  con- 
fidant," she  heard  him  say.  "Another  has 
taken  my  place!" 

"Why!  what  can  you  mean!"  was  the 
reply.  "You  have  always  had  the  first 
place!" 

"Yes,  perhaps  the  first  place,  in  some  re- 
spects," was  the  cold  answer,  "but  cer- 
(51) 


tainly  not  the  first  place  in  your  heart. 
Senora,  let  us  not  waste  words.  You  and 
I  both  know  that  another  has  come  in  be- 
tween us,  and  that  other  is  your  priest. 
To  him  you  go  for  direction  and  for  com- 
fort. Your  confidence  no  longer  reposes 
in  your  husband." 

<vBut,"  faltered  the  woman,  "you  know 
our  Holy  Church  tells  us  to  go  to  our 
priest  for  our  instruction  and  guidance. 
I  must  obey!  What  else  can  I  do?" 

"Do!  This  you  can  do — you  can  give 
un  your  confessional.  No  longer  shall 
your  priest  steal  from  you  your  secrets, 
your  heart!  I  will  not  have  it!  Again  I 
say,  you  must  choose  between  your  priest 
and  your  husband!" 

The  woman  was  weeping.  "You  are 
cruel!  You  ask  o>f  me  what  I  can  not  do!" 
But  the  man  angrily  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

Elena's  mother  came  out  into  the  corri- 
dor. These  were  not  their  first  words  on 
the  subject.  .She  knew  that  his  anger 
would  pass  and  she  would  still  continue 
at  the  confessional.  He,  too,  knew,  alas! 
that  there  was  no  other  way.  His  wife, 
as  did  the  other  wives,  would  still  go  to 
their  confessional,  and  he  must  submit. 

As  the  mother  drew  near,  Elena  ex- 
claimed: 

(52) 


"Oh,  mother  dear,  I  heard  what  you 
were  saying,  and  father  is  right.  Lot  us 
not  go  to  confess  any  more!"  The  woman 
started,  then  turned  angrily. 

"And  who  art  thou  to  dictate  thus!  Art 
thou  wiser  and  better  than  our  Mother 
Church,  which  commands  us  to  confess  to 
our  priest!" 

"But,  oh,  mother,"  called  the  girl,  "I  am 
not  to  tell  you  what  to  do,  but  please  do 
not  make  me  go  another  time  to  con- 
fess!" - 

"And  why  not?" 

"Because  I  can  not  go,  mother.  The  last 
time  I  was  there  I  vowed  in  my  heart 
never  to  go  again,  but  I  dared  not  tell 
you." 

"But  why?  I  ask  again!"  demanded 
the  mother. 

The  girl  was  crying  now.  "You  know, 
mother.  T  need  not  tell  you,"  she  fal- 
tered. "I  can  not  tell  you  the  questions 
he  asks  of  me.  The  words  he  speaks  to 
me  I  blush  to  hear.  The  thoughts  he  gives 
to  me  T  hate!" 

The  mother  looked  earnestly  into  the 
beautiful  innocent  face  of  her  daughter. 
She  could  not  speak  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  said: 

"It  must  be  a  mistake!  The  priest  is  a 
holy  man,  and  he  could  only  say  to  you 
(53) 


pure  words.  He  can  not  mean  to  say  to 
you  what  is  harmful.  But  I  will  talk  to 
him  and  tell  him  he  must  be  careful.  And, 
Elena,  my  child,  do  not  speak  of  this  to 
any  one,  especially  to  thy  father,  and  I 
will  tell  the  priest  to  be  more  careful!" 

"Oh,  mother,  listen  to  me!  I  have 
learned  that  it  is  wrong  to  confess  to  a 
man.  Only  God  is  able  to  hear  and  to 
forgive!" 

"What!"  said  the  woman,  "that  is  her- 
esy. Where  hast  thou  learned  such?  Has 
Rudolfo,  or  has  thy  nurse  been  poisoning 
thy  young  heart?  We  will  attend  to 
this!" 

And  the  mother  hastened  away,  unwill- 
ing to  listen  to  further  words  from  her 
daughter. 

Elena  was  still  sadly  thinking  and  won- 
dering, when  there  came  a  step  along  the 
corridor,  to  her  side,  and  before  her  stood 
Rudolfo.  He  placed  a  chair  for  himself 
while  she  drew  up  her  work. 

"So  occupied  that  thou  hast  not  even 
one  word  for  me!" 

Her  eyes  were  on  her  work.  "Elena,  it 
is  a  long  time  since  we  two  used  to  play 
here  together.  Thou  wast  beautiful  then, 
but  far  more  beautiful  now!" 

She   quickly   looked   up   at  him,    anger 
now  in  those  gentle  eyes. 
(54) 


"How  darest  thou  talk  thus  to  me? 
Thou,  so  soon  to  be  a  priest?" 

"An  innocent  as  ever,  sweet  maid," 
laughed  the  young  man,  and  then,  in 
changed  and  sober  tone,  he  added,  "and 
didst  thou  think  in  truth  I  am  to  be  a 
priest?  Bah!  I  hate  them  all.  I  am 
only  waiting  for  the  opportune  moment  to 
leave  them  and  return  to  life  and  thee!" 

Astonished,  she  said,  "And  thou,  Ru- 
dolfo,  hast  been  deceiving  us,  mother, 
priests  and  all?" 

"Call  it  thus  if  thou  dost  like.  I  am 
only  learning  their  own  art.  They  are  de- 
ceiving us!  But  I  must  except  one  priest: 
Father  Antonio  is  true  and  good  and  hon- 
est I  went  there  against  my  will  to  please 
my  mother.  I  have  remained  longer  than 
I  thought,  because — because — well — be- 
cause I  knew  not  just  how  to  escape — 
and,  well,  because  I  am  suited  there  in 
some  ways.  But  yes,  Elena,  I  am  living 
a  life  of  deceit.  I  am  a  hypocrite  and  a 
coward.  But  T  will  soon  leave." 

"Rufo,"  said  the  girl,  "do  you  remem- 
ber how  you  used  to  talk  to  me  about  the 
missionary,  and  do  you  remember  that 
night  you  took  me  with  you  to  hear  him 
talk  and  sing?  I  have  been  thinking 
about  it  this  afternoon.  The  Protestants 
are  right.  I  wish  I  knew  them  better,  for 
(55) 


I  love  their  teachings  and  their  book,  the 
Bible.  But  thou  art  so  changed.  Thou 
art  not  the  same  Ru£o." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man  bitterly,  "I 
know  you  all  think  so.  But  at  heart  I  am 
not  changed." 

He  stood  upon  his  feet.  "Elena,  I  aa 
the  same.  I  must  go  now,  but  remember, 
to  you  I  have  not  changed.  And  what- 
ever happens,  do  not  forget  or  hate  me, 
Querida." 


(56) 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
DANGER. 

Rudolfo  had  occasion  to  pa»s,  one  even- 
ing after  dark,  the  passage  leading  into 
the  back  court  of  the  Bishops'  School.  The 
door  was  closed,  but  he  heard  voices  on 
the  other  side.  He  stood  a  moment,  with- 
out special  thought,  when  suddenly  his  at- 
tention was  arrested  by  the  words  of  the 
Father  Superior. 

"Sin!  It  is  no  sin!  On  the  contrary,  it 
will  be  a  very  commendable  deed!  Why, 
man,  it  will  be  a  very  meritorious  deed! 
Everything  which  threatens  the  safety  of 
our  most  Holy  Church  must  be  removed. 
And  this  doctrine  threatens  and  is  spread- 
ing. Think!  Would  you  not  do  all  in  your 
power  to  remove  from  us  some  deadly 
disease?  and  this  doctrine  is  worse  than 
a  deadly  disease,  for  it  destroys  both  body 
and  soul.  And  to  reach  this  danger,  the 
leader  of  this  sect,  the  propagator  of  this 
pernicious  faith  must  be 'removed!  And 
whosoever  shall  do  this  act  for  the  safety 
of  the  Holy  Church  shall  be  forever  blessed, 
here  and  hereafter.  Think,  man,  of  the  in- 
dulgenoos  such  a  deed  will  obtain!" 
(57) 


"Yes,  Father,"  replied  an  unknown  voice. 
"Yes!  But  at  the  -same  time,  thou  know- 
eat  it  is  a  dangerous  and  a  difficult  thing 
that  thou  and  the  Church  dost  ask.  So 
dangerous  and  difficult  that  a  lifetime  of 
indulgence  will  not  be  sufficient  recom- 
pense!" 

"Then,  man,  a  large  sum  of  money  shall 
be  added.  The  Church  is  ready  to  grant 
full  and  generous  recompense  for  all  done 
in  her  behalf.  Name  the  sum!" 

"Three  hundred  dollars,  Father." 

"Impossible,  man!  The  deed  does  not 
warrant  such  extravagance!"  , 

After  some  haggling  the  sum  of  two 
hundred  dollars  was  agreed  upon.  "And 
now,"  continued  the  priest,  "as  to  the 
opportune  time.  It  is  now.  To-morrow! 
He  is  out  of  town.  Up  in  the  hills  among 
the  mines.  His  return  road  into  the  city 
will  be  through  the  south  gate.  This  road 
is  but  little  traveled  and  leads  through  the 
'arroyo'  where  are  the  thickets.  But  you 
can  plan  the  details,  only  remember  this: 
The  sooner  the  better,  and  as  soon  as  ac- 
complished come  to  me  and  the  two  hun- 
dred dollars  is  yours!" 

The  young  man,  Rudolfo,  stood  riveted 
to  the  spot.     Too  well  he  understood  the 
meaning  of   that   conversation.     His   nat- 
ural  impetuosity  was  about  to   open  the 
(58) 


door  upon  them,  when  some  power  seemed 
to  restrain  him,  and  he  turned  as  if  to 
flee  from  the  spot.  Only  a  few  steps  dis- 
tant, the  door  suddenly  opened  and  the 
priest,  accompanied  by 'two  men  in  common 
clothes,  walked  hurriedly  past  him.  The 
priest  turned,  paused  a  moment,  his  face 
toward  the  young  man  as  if  about  to 


Later  that  evening  Rudolfo  was  called 
into  the  private  room  of  the  priest,  who 
looked  searchingly  into  his  face,  only  to 
meet  a  steady  gaze,  and  there  was  scorn 
in  that  look. 

"Thou  wast  in  the  court  as  I  passed 
through?"  asked  the  father. 

"Yes,  Father." 

"Didst  thou  hear  aught  of  the  words 
said?" 

"Not  a  word,  Father!"  The  lie  was 
spoken  very  calmly  and  deliberately. 

Again  the  priest  looked  searchingly  into 
the  young  man's  face,  but  nothing  was  re- 
vealed. 

"It  was  nothing,  son.  Two  men  were 
speaking  on  a  private  matter  of  personal 
importance  to  themselves.  I  called  thee, 
eon,  to  secure  thy  assistance  in  the  class- 
room next  week.  Thou  dost  know  that 
the  new  class  in  church  history  Is  a  large 
one,  and  the  instructor  has  his  hands  more 
(59) 


than  full.    Canst  thou  assist  him  to-morrow 
and  this  week?" 

"I  will  think  about  it."  Rudolfo  retired 
to  his  room,  but  not  to  sleep.  Well,  too 
well,  he  understood  the  meaning  of  that 
transaction  within  the  inner  court.  A 
price  was  set  on  the  head  of  the  mission- 
ary. That  man  whom  he  loved  and  respect- 
ed. It  had  been  years  since  he  had  talked 
with  him,  but  how  well  he  remembered 
the  conversation  when  a  boy,  the  mis- 
sionary's kind  face  and  smile  and  words. 
He  had  occasionally  seen  him  on  the  street, 
but  not  to  talk  to  him.  Through  the 
hours  of  the  night  the  young  man  lay 
thinking.  "The  missionary  must  not  die, 
and  I  must  save  him."  His  plans  were 
made.  While  students  and  servants  were 
busy  about  the  early  morning  occupations 
he  passed  unnoticed  into  the  street. 

Late  that  afternoon  the  missionary  waa 
returning  home,  driving  slowly  in  his  lit- 
the  cart  over  the  dry,  dusty  plain.  He  nan 
been  spending  several  days  up  among  the 
mines.  His  cart  had  been  filled  with  Bibles 
and  papers  which  had  all  been  given  away 
while  preaching,  singing  and  talking  to 
the  miners. 

And  now  the  long,  wearisome  ride  home 
But  it  was  almost  over  now;  far  off  in  the 
distance  he  could  see  the  western  sun  re- 
(60) 


fleeted  on  cathedral  walls  and  spires.  But 
he  needs  must  hasten,  for  night  was  fast 
coming  on,  and  it  would  be  dark  ere  h« 
pas»  over  the  "arroyo'  with  its  heavy  mea- 
quite  thickets.  He  was  rounding  a  Dig 
pile  of  boulders  and  rocks,  when  his  horse 
suddenly  started,  nearly  overturning  the 
cart.  At  the  same  moment  a  figure  sud- 
denly appeared  from  behind  the  boulders; 
an  old  man  dressed  in  working  clothes, 
his  old  straw  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and 
tied  by  a  cloth  under  the  chin. 

The  missionary  never  carried  weapons. 
He  always  said  they  would  be  no  defense, 
rather  a  disadvantage,  and  he  noticed  that 
the  man  carried  no  weapon.  Stepping 
quickly  to  the  side  of  the  cart,  speaking 
hurriedly,  he  said: 

"Senor,  do  not  go  down  through  the 
arroyo!  Men  are  mere  waiting  to  kill 
you!  Believe  me.  I  speak  the  truth.  No 
matter  how  I  know.  Ask  no  questions,  but 
do  as  I  tell  you.  Turn  here,  retrace  your 
way  to  the  hacienda  morena — and  there 
take  the  way  around  by  the  traveled  road 
into  town.  It  will  be  very  late  in  the 
night  before  you  reach  home,  but  better 
so  than  to  pass  through  the  arroyo!  And 
hereafter  be  on  the  watch  wherever  you 
go,  for  your  life  is  In  danger!" 

The  missionary  hesitated.  It  would  so 
(61) 


belate  him  to  retrace  his  way  so  many 
miles,  but  something  in  the  old  man  com- 
pelled him  to  obey. 

"God  reward  thee,  my  friend,  for  thus 
coming  to  warn  me!  Tell  me  thy  name, 
old  man,  or  am  I  mistaken,  thy  appear- 
ance is  that  of  an  old  man,  but  thy  voice 
and  thine  eyes  belong  to  one  of  younger 
years!  Tell  me  thy  name!" 

"No  matter,  Senor — I  am  a  friend.  I 
knew  of  this  danger  and  have  been  lying 
behind  these  rocks  since  noon,  for  1  knew 
not  when  you  would  pass  this  way." 

"At  least  get  in  here  with  me  and  re- 
turn to  the  town,  for  I  see  you  are  on  foot." 

"No,  I  can  not  ride  with  you.  But  turn 
quickly  and  go.  Adios!"  And  as  suddenly 
as  he  appeared,  so  suddenly  he  disappeared 
behind  the  rocks. 

As  the  good  man  retraced  his  weary 
way,  thanking  God  for  his  deliverance,  he 
wished  that  he  might  know  who  had  been 
his  deliverer.  A  strange  old  man.  What 
was  it  that  made  him  think  of  Rudolfo — 
his  boy  friend  of  years  before?  How  he 
had  loved  him  and  yearned  for  him!  How 
he  grieved  when  they  told  him  that  Rudol- 
fo had  entered  the  training  school  for 
priests!  Poor  boy.  was  he  to  be  lost? 

Was  the  good  man's  faith  growing  faint? 

(62) 


The  same  great  love  which  guided  the 
steps  of  the  missionary  and  turned  them 
from  death  was  watching  over  this  blinded, 
misguided  youth,  and  was  yet  to  lead  him 
into  paths  of  safety  and  right. 

It  was  past  the  retiring  hour  in  the  col- 
lege. The  doorkeeper  waited  to  close  the 
heavy  street  door.  And  yet  he  knew  that 
his  favorite,  the  young  man  Rudolf o,  was 
not  yet  within,  and  he  continued  to  wait. 

"Why  is  not  the  door  closed?"  called 
the  priest  on  his  nightly  walk  through  the 
corridor.  "Close  it,  I  tell  thee." 

"Yes,  Father,"  was  the  obedient  reply. 
The  heavy  door  wa©  swinging  when  there 
was  a  hurried  step  on  the  pavement  with- 
out, and  the  young  priest  Rudolfo 
stepped  in. 

"Where  hast  thou  been  all  day?"  de- 
manded the  priest,  turning  upon  him. 

"With  my  mother!"  They  faced  each 
other  a  moment.  Both  knew  the  lie.  "Re- 
main in  thy  room  to-morrow  till  I  send 
for  thee!" 

The  young  priest  had  never  been  sub- 
jected to  punishment  as  had  other  stu- 
dents. Well  aware  of  that  fact  he  had  but 
little  fear.  The  excitement  and  fatigue 
produced  a  long,  sound  sleep.  His  Impris- 
onment gave  opportunity  for  the  longer 

(63) 


rest.  About  noon  he  was  called  into  the 
presence  of  the  father.  His  manner  of  the 
night  before  had  undergone  a  change. 

With  a  kind  smile  and  mild  tone  the 
priest  began. 

"My  son,  thou  dost  know  how  well  thou 
art  loved  and  how  thou  art  privileged  as 
no  other  here.  How  it  has  grieved  me  to 
hear  thy  deliberate  falsehood  of  last 
night.  Why  didst  thou  lie  to  me?" 

"Perhaps  because  I  have  so  well  learned 
that  art  since  coming  here!"  replied  the 
young  man  in  tones  equally  bland. 

"I  had  thought  last  night  to  visit  upon 
thee  deserving  punishment!"  replied  the 
priest,  frowning.  "But  I  have  decided  to 
leave  thee  with  thine  own  conscience.  But 
hereafter  thou  art  not  free  to  come  ana 
go  as  thou  hast  done.  True,  thou  hast  al- 
ways been  required  to  obtain  the  leave  of 
absence  from  the  building,  but  we  have 
so  far  always  trusted  thee  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  thy  errand  has  never  been  asked. 
But  hereafter  remember,  that  whenever  it 
becomes  necessary  to  grant  to  thee  permis- 
sion for  absence  from  the  building,  thy 
errand  will  also  be  required!" 

The  young  man  made  no  answer.  "And 
one  word  more  before  thy  departure!" 
The  father  was  decidedly  ill  at  ease,  his 

(64) 


manner  unlike  the  air  of  self-repose  of  the 
moment  before. 

"Dost  thou  know  aught  of  the  leader  of 
the  heretics?  Hast  thou  communications 
with  any  of  the  sect?" 

"I  know  naught  of  them,"  was  the  reply. 


(65) 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DECEIVED. 

"And  so  the  girl  is  quite  stubborn,  is 
she!"  -So  said  the  man  within  the  confes- 
sional to  his  penitent,  the  mother  of  Elena. 
"And  hast  thou  done  all  in  thy  power, 
daughter?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Father!"  sobbed  the  woman. 

"Well,"  continued  the  man,  "then  it  is 
time  for  thy  priest  to  help.  She  refuses 
to  come  to  mass,  to  come  to  the  confes- 
sional, she  insists  on  attendance  upon  the 
services  of  the  heretics  and  she  pretends 
to  read  her  Bible  alone,  unaided  by 
her  priest.  Her  soul  indeed  is  in  great 
danger.  But  do  not  despair,  daughter! 
I  have  a  plan.  She  shall  yet  be  saved! 
She  must  be  removed  at  once  from  the 
pernicious  influence  of  these  heretics. 
This  thou  dost  clearly  see,  daughter!  But 
I  know  a  safe  retreat.  In  the  school  of 
the  iSisters  Angelina  she  will  be  sheltered, 
and  in  time  the  seeds  of  heresy  sown  in 
her  heart  will  die  for  lack  of  nourishment. 
"Now  the  stage  leaves  to-morrow  morn 
for  the  school,  and  thou  must  be  the  one 
to  carry  her  thence.  I  will  give  thee  a 
(66) 


letter  of  introduction  to  the  Sisters,  that 
they  may  know  how  to  meet  the  case.  But, 
daughter,  there  must  be  all  haste.  Thou 
must  surely  go  to-morrow,  and  there  must 
be  all  secrecy  lest  the  girl  escape  us. 
Tell  her  that  thou  art  suddenly  summoned 
to  the  dying  bed  of  some  old  friend  and 
that  thou  dost  need  her  assistance.  Tell 
her  anything  that  will  take  her  with  thee. 
Of  course  the  Holy  Church  does  frown 
upon  deceptions.  But  this  is  not  decep- 
tion. All  means  are  fair  that  will  save 
an  Immortal  soul  from  destruction,  i 
know  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  thee  to  do, 
daughter,  but  thou  wilt  not  fail!  It  will 
be<  worth  the  cost,  the  saving  of  thy 
child!" 

The  man  paused  to  breathe.  He  did 
not  add  what  was  in  his  thoughts,  that 
there  had  been  brewing  in  his  mind  for 
some  time  a  plan  for  the  removal  of  this 
fair  maid.  For  there  had  been  whispers 
of  late  that  there  was  danger  that  the 
Church  would  lose  the  young  priest  Ru- 
dolfo  because  of  this  same  girl. 

The  mother  tearfully  promised  and 
went  her  way.  She,  with  a  mother's  heart, 
a  mother's  love.  But  before  love,  before 
honor  even,  must  be  obedience  to  the 
voice  of  her  priest. 

It    was    all    over.      The    girl    was    safe 

(67) 


under  lock  and  key  in  the  "Sister's  Ref- 
uge." Elena  knew  that  she  had  been  de- 
ceived by  mother  and  by  priest.  'She 
knew,  too,  that  when  father  and  mother 
forsook,  the  Lord  would  take  her  up. 
She  had  been  searched.  Her  little  Bible 
had  been  taken  from  her,  but,  ah!  they 
could  not  search  her  heart  and  take  from 
thence  the  treasure  hid. 

Solitude,  cold,  hunger,  threats  and  pun- 
ishment could  not  draw  from  that  once 
timid  girl  the  words  "I  recant."  And 
though  the  convent  walls  were  thick 
and  cold  and  dark,  the  heavenly  hope 
filled  her  soul  with  warmth  and  light. 
And  peace  and  courage,  God's  gifts  to 
his  children,  were  hers. 

Months  had  passed.  The  mysterious 
disappearance  of  Elena,  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  Corona,  had  ceased  to  be  a 
subject  of  public  speculation.  Her 
mother's  face  had  grown  sad,  her  steps 
slow.  Did  she  know  aught  of  her  daugh- 
ter that  she  would  not  reveal?  And  the 
young  priest  Rudolfo,  what  of  him?  When 
the  girl  had  first  disappeared,  in  his  des- 
peration he  had  boldly  sought  her.  Lit- 
tle did  he  care,  though  men  wondered  and 
jeered.  It  was  even  rumored  that  Elena 
was  secreted  in  the  house  of  the  Protes- 
tant priest,  and  thither  he  went  in  his 
(68) 


search.  The  good  man  told  him  how  his 
heart  waited  and  yearned  for  his  salvation, 
but  to  the  young  man,  then,  there  seemed 
no  interest,  no  thought  save  to  find  his 
lost  Elena.  All  his  search  had  been  in 
vain.  He  determined  then  to  leave  the 
college,  to  renounce  his  priesthood.  But 
the  knowledge  of  his  unfitness  for  any  oc- 
cupation in  business,  forced  him  to  hes- 
itate. Even  his  own  mother  would  prob- 
ably refuse  to  receive  him  again.  High 
life,  in  iMexico,  is  in  natural  enmity  to 
manual  labor,  and  his  training  for  the 
priesthood  in  no  way  gave  him  a  taste 
for  work.  He  knew  not  what  to  do — 
where  to  go.  There  seemed  nowhere  else. 
Thus  it  was  that  the  passing  weeks  and 
months  still  found  him  there,  unhappy, 
restless.  The  father  superior  was  confi- 
dent that  with  Elena  removed  from  his 
sight  and  thoughts  the  young  man  would 
in  time  submit  to  the  career  before  him. 
But  as  time  passed  and  no  news  came  of 
the  lost  girl,  the  young  man  grew  silent, 
sullen  and  despairing. 


(69) 


CHAPTER.  X. 

FAITHFUL. 

"One  of  those  despicable  heretics  has 
been  brought  in  hither,  and  cast  into  that 
little  empty  back  room.  That  room  that 
used  to  be  the  cell  of  the  'old  crazy  monk'. 
He  has  been  in  there  a  day  and  a  night. 
They  think  to  make  him  recant,  but  those 
heretics  are  a  stubborn  lot." 

Thus  spoke'  one  of  a  group  of  students 
standing  in  the  college  court  yard.  The 
young  Rudolfo  was  approaching  the  group 
and  his  blood  was  stirred  at  the  words. 

"Who  put  him  there?"  he  ask'ed  sharply. 

"By  order  of  the  priest,  methinks,  or 
better,  by  order  of  the  Holy  €hurch,"  said 
one. 

"Art  thou  perchance  interested  in  this 
dog  of  a  heretic?"  sneered  another.  Ru- 
dolfo had  never  entered  that  little  back 
room  since  he  used  to  meet  his  uncle 
there.  He  avoided  the  place,  but  now  he 
walked  quickly  across  the  yard.  The  door 
was  closed.  He  stood  without  a  few  mo- 
ments, but  heard  no  sound,  and  concluded 
that  the  prisoner  had  been  released.  Ru- 
dolfo was  occupied  through  the  day,  for 
(  70  ) 


he  had  completed  his  course  of  instruc- 
tion and  in  a  short  time  was  to  enter 
upon  the  duties  of  a  fully  equipped  priest. 
But  as  night  came  on  his  sleep  was 
troubled.  In  dreams  he  seemed  again  a 
boy,  kneeling  by  his  uncle's  dying  bed  and 
listening  to  the  words  of  Felipe.  Then 
he  heard  the  missionary  saying: 

"Whosoever,  therefore,  shall  confess  me 
before  men,  him  also  will  I  confess  before 
my  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

"But  whosoever  shall  deny  me  before 
men,  him  also  will  I  deny  before  my  Fa- 
ther which  is  in  heaven." 

And  now  he  thought  of  Juan,  his  moth- 
er'sw  faithful  old  servant,  and  how  he 
pleaded  with  his  young  master  to  confess 
his  'Savior. 

"Poor  old  Juan!'  thought  the  young 
priest,  aroused  from  his  dreams.  "My 
faithful  old  Juan!  I  had  well  nigh  for- 
gotten thee!  'But  I  will  make  amends 
and  soon  look  thee  up  again!" 

The  next  morning  as  Rudolfo  was  com- 
ing out  from  early  mass  in  the  chapel, 
he  heard  loud  voices  in  the  back  court.  A 
crowd  had  pushed  in  through  the  back 
gate  and  others  were  entering.  The  old 
prisoner  had  been  dragged  into  the  yard. 

"He  will  not  recant!  Then  let  the  dog 
die!" 

(  71  ) 


"Let  him  feel  first  the  touch  of  the 
lash!  Mayhap  that  will  quicken  his 
thoughts!" 

Down  on  the  ground  was  an  old  man 
kneeling,  stripped  to  the  waist,  his  hands 
fastened  behind  him.  Above  him  stood 
one  with  uplifted  hand  holding  a  scourge, 
a  forbidden  instrument  now,  but  neverthe- 
less kept  by  the  most  Holy  Church  to 
use,  in  secret,  whenever  the  occasion  de- 
mands. 

The  young  man  stood  a  moment  at  a 
distance,  as  he  saw  and  heard  blow  after 
blow  fall  and  tear  the  bare  flesh.  No 
sound  escaped  the  prisoner.  This  seemed 
the  more  to  madden  the  mob.  One  drew 
near  and  threw  a  heavy  stone.  Another, 
with  a  savage  kick,  threw  the  old  man 
forward  upon  his  face. 

"iHe  is  dead!"  cried  one. 

"Have  mercy!  spare  the  gray  hairs!" 
came  a  voice  from  the  crowd. 

At  this  moment  Rudolfo  rushed  to  the 
center.  The  old  man  lay  upon  the  ground, 
his  face  turned  toward  him.  One  look 
at  that  prostrate  form  and  into  that  face 
and  the  young  priest  leaped  like  an  infu- 
riated beast. 

"Juan!"  he  cried.  "My  old  Juan!  Diab- 
clos!  Por  Dios  cease!" 

He  leaned  over  the  fallen  man  to  raise 
(72) 


him.  The  crowd  had  drawn  back  a  mo- 
ment. Then  one  called.  "Take  him,  too. 
He  is  one  of  them.  A  traitor!  Let  him 
die  too!" 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
faced  the  angry  mob,  his  eyes  blazing 
and  every  nerve  quivering.  His  voice  was 
strange  as  he  cried: 

"Touch  me  who  dares!" 

T3ut  no  one  dared.  Then  a  sudden  si- 
lence fell,  for  in  through  the  gate  and 
through  the  crowd  walked  the  mission- 
ary. He  was  silent  as  he  stood  before 
them,  but  there  was  something  in  that 
stern  gaze  that  no  one  cared  to  meet, 
and  one  by  one  the  crowd  fell  back. 

"Bring  water!"  he  said,  as  he  stooped 
and  with  his  knife  cut  the  cords,  and  then 
with  his  handkerchief  bathed  the  face  and 
head  of  the  unconscious  man.  And  then 
hr-<  looked  to  see  who  was  supporting  in 
his  arms  the  old  man.  The  eyes  of  the 
two  met  for  a  moment,  but  no  word  was 
said. 

From  his  concealment  walked  forth  the 
priest,  who  had  instigated  the  deed,  but 
wisely  kept  himself  from  view. 

"And  what  dost  thou  here,  leader  of  the 
heretics?  Begone!" 

"I  go  when  I  take  my  brother  with  me!" 
v,as  the  fearless  reply. 

(73) 


Then  stood  the  missionary  upan  his 
feet,  and  turning  to  the  crowd: 

"Is  it  thus  that  ye  take  the  law  within 
your  own  hands?  Ye,  a  law-professing 
people!  But  you  are  the  one  responsible!" 
turning  to  the  priest,  "and  justice  will  be 
meted  out  for  you!  Goa's  justice  never 
fails!" 

"Take  the  carcass  of  the  dog  with  you 
and  begone!"  angrily  said  the  man  in 
the  black  roh-e  as  he  disappeared  from 
view.  The  crowd  began  to  scatter,  some 
with  angry  threats  and  muttered  insults, 
some  with  merry  ridicule.  But  one  came 
and  helped  the  missionary  and  the  young 
priest,  as  together  they  carried  the  man, 
now  regaining  consciousness,  into  the 
street,  and  lifted  him  into  the  hack  which 
they  had  called.  Faithfully,  these  two,  in 
the  house  of  the  missionary,  ministered 
to  their  suffering  friend.  But  he  had  not 
long  to  suffer. 

"Sit  near  me,  >oung  master,  and  rea-1 
me  once  more  these  words." 

The  young  priest  opened  and  read: 

"And  there  shall  be  no  more  death, 
neither  sorrow  nor  crying,  neither  shall 
there  be  any  more  pain,  and  God  shall 
wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes." 

"Dear  young  master,"  whispered  the  old 
man  slowly,  "this  little  book  you  now  hold 

(74) 


was  the  one  your  uncle  held  in  death.  He 
bequeathed  to  you  his  little  crucifix.  I  now 
bequeath  to  you  my  Bible.  May  it  lead 
you  and  keep  you  till  we  meet  again, 
young  master!" 


(75) 


OHAPTEiR  XI. 

RELEASED. 

Rudolfo  had  scarce  refrained  himself 
before  the  suffering,  dying  Juan.  But 
when  all  was  over  his  wrath  could  find 
no  words. 

"Oh,  senor!  I  hate  them!  I  hate  them! 
The  cruel  deceivers!  I  would  fight  them! 
Will  you  not  send  to  your  country,  for  your 
people  are  strong,  and  bring  men  here, 
and  we  will  drive  them  from  among  us?" 

"My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world,  for 
then  would  my  servants  fight,"  responded 
the  quiet  voice. 

"My  father  said  there  would  be  battles 
to  fight  for  Mexico,  and  I  am  ready  to  be- 
gin. Oh,  that  I  might  destroy  them!" 
cried  the  excited  young  man. 

"Yes,  even  now  is  the  battle  waging.  It 
is  between  wrong  and  right,  but  the  weap- 
ons are  not  carnal. 

"The  armor  of  God  is  this: 

"  'Your  loins  girt  about  with  truth,  and 

having  on  the  breastplate  of  righteousness, 

and  your  feet  shod  with  the  preparation  of 

the   gospel   of   peace.     Above   all — taking 

(76) 


the  shield  of  faith — and  take  the  helmet 
of  salvation,  and  the  sword  of  the  Spirit, 
uhich  is  the  Word  of  God.' 

"Are  you  ready  to  put  on  this  armor,  my 
young  friend?" 

For  a  moment  the  two  looked  into  each 
ether's  eyes.  Was  there  something  that 
spoke  from  the  soul  of  one  to  the  soul 
of  the  other,  for  the  missionary  loved  the 
boy,  and  the  proud  young  man,  for  the 
first  time,  knew  his  master. 

"No,  senor,  I  am  not  ready  yet;  I  am 
not  worthy  yet,"  came  the  reply  in  hum- 
bled tone. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  my 
boy?"  The  question  aroused  the  young 
man.  He  raised  his  head,  for  with  that 
question  had  come  the  knowledge  of  his 
release.  He  knew  now  that  he  was  free. 
He  knew  that  he  could  no  longer  return 
tc  the  college.  He  knew  that  he  would 
not  be  received  there.  He  knew  that  his 
mother  even  would  refuse  to  receive  him. 

"Your  home  is  here  with  us,  until  you 
choose  to  find  another,"  said  the  kind 
voice. 

"I  will  go  first  and  see  if  my  mother 
will  listen  to  me." 

Meantime,  the  missionary  went  to  ascer- 
tain whether  the  law  could  be  meted  out 
to  those  murderers.  But  nothing  was  done. 

(77) 


Punishment  of  the  offenders  was  prom- 
ised, but  they  could  not  be  found.  He 
sought  permission  to  place  the  wrong  be- 
fore the  public,  through  the  press,  but  this 
was  refused. 

Rudolfo  found  his  mother  much  broken. 
She  had  heard  the  story. 

"To  think  that  I  should  live  to  have 
this  disgrace  brought  upon  me!  And  by 
my  own  son!  Oh,  the  shame,  the  shame!" 

"Shame!"  cried  the  young  man  hotly, 
"shame!  Then  it  is  no  shame  that  your 
brother,  my  old  uncle,  was  defrauded  of 
all,  that  our  own  home  was  taken  from 
us?  No  shame  that  all  has  gone  from  us 
on  the  false  pretense  of  liberating  my 
father's  soul  from  purgatory?  And  is  it 
no  shame  that  our  faithful  Juan  was  ban- 
ished and  now  cruelly  put  to  death?  Oh, 
mother,  my  mother,  how  can  we  who  have 
lived  these  years  under  this  tyranny  that 
knows  no  shame,  how  can  we  talk  of 
shame?  I  have  been  living  in  intimacy 
now  with  the  priests  of  our  Church,  and  I 
can  prove  to  you  its  falseness!" 

Then  the  young  man  controlled  himself 
and  in  subdued  tones  told  his  mother  about 
the  sufferings  of  their  faithful  Juan,  about 
his  last  words  and  about  what  the  mis- 
sionary had  told  him.  He  told  her  that 
he  was  now  about  to  identify  himself  with 
(78) 


the  Protestants,  and  begged  her  to  come 
with  him. 

The  proud,  beautiful  woman  wept,  but 
said,  "No,  son,  it  can  not  be!  We  have 
not  been  deceived.  Thou  art  the  deluded 
one!  Thy  soul  will  go  to  destruction  and 
thou  wouldst  take  me  with  thee!" 

"•Mother!"  again  cried  out  the  young 
man.  "The  Church  of  Rome  is  responsible 
for  the — shall  I  say  death — at  least  thb 
disappearance  of  Elena!" 

Then  the  mother  said:  "Then  if  you 
loved  Elena,  how  didst  thou  reconcile  that 
with  thy  intention  to  become  a  priest?" 

"Ah,  mother,  that  was  the  worst  of  all! 
I  was  deceiving  you  all.  I  went  there 
first  to  please  you,  mother.  But  I  never 
did  intend  to  become  a  priest  until  Elena 
was  taken  from  me,  and  then  in  my  de- 
spair I  had  about  yielded  myself!  But 
now  I  am  free.  God  will  forgive,  and  my 
life  shall  be  a  warning  to  others!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  while.  Then 
the  mother  said: 

"Then  you  must  choose  between  me 
and  disgrace!  I  have  no  son  who  is  a 
heretic!" 

"If  you  say  so,  I  will  choose,  mother, 
between  you  and — not  disgrace — but 
Jesus.  As  you  say,  mother!" 

Rudolfo  went  to  his  own  room.  His  lit- 
(79) 


tie  trunk  was  there.  It  had  been  sent 
home  from  the  college.  He  gathered  up 
his  few  belongings  and  placed  them  in  his 
trunk.  His  uncle's  crucifix  he  still  wore 
on  his  bosom,  under  his  garments.  He 
took  it  from  him  and  placed  it  in  the 
trunk.  The  New  Testament,  the  gift  of 
dying  Juan,  he  placed  by  its  side. 

It  was  not  the  same  proud,  self-secure 
young  man,  who  later  presented  himself 
at  the  home  of  the  missionary.  Rather,  it 
was  the  face  of  one  who  had  met  his  foe 
and  the  struggle  still  on. 

"You  are  welcome,"  said  the  good  man 
with  that  quiet,  reassuring  smile  of  his. 
"You  know  even  the  Son  of  God,  when  on 
earth,  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head." 

"I  have  enlisted,  senor,"  said  the  young 
man.  "I  am  ready  for  the  fight,  but  1 
know  not  which  way  to  turn."  The  tone 
was  low  and  humble. 

"I  know  all  about  it,  my  young  friend. 
It  is  so  because  you  are  fighting  alone! 
But  you  need  not  battle  alone!  Your  Cap- 
tain is  waiting  only  for  you  to  call  him 
to  your  side!" 

"Teach  me  how,  senor!" 

Then  how  lovingly  the  missionary 
pointed  out  the  way,  straight  to  Jesus. 
Together  they  kneeled,  and  both  called 
for  help. 

(80) 


When  they  arose  there  was  a  new  look 
in  that  face — a  new  light  in  those  eyes. 
Both  knew  that  the  surrender  had  been 
made.  There  was  no  need  for  words,  for 
such  joy  needeth  no  human  speech. 


(SI) 


CHAPTER 

FOUND. 

Rudolfo  was  now  occupied  with  new 
studies — new  studies  that  unfolded  won- 
derful things.  The  young  man  was  the 
missionary's  companion,  and  together  they 
walked  the  streets,  or  traveled  to  other 
villages  to  teach  and  preach. 

But  often  his  heart  turned  toward  his 
lost  Elena.  If  he  only  could  tell  her  that 
now  he  shared  her  joy  and  hope! 

And  had  his  instructors  in  college 
dropped  him  out  of  mind?  By  no  means! 

One  day,  a  former  friend  and  classmate 
suddenly  came  upon  him  in  the  street. 
"Amigo,  I  have  been  seeking  opportunity 
to  give  thee  warning!  Take  it.  For  thy 
life  is  hunted  by  thy  former  instructors! 
Flee,  I  tell  thee!" 

But  with  his  characteristic  fearlessness 
the  young  man  paid  little  heed.  He  had 
heard  other  threats.  So  the  next  day 
Rudolfo  entered,  as  he  frequently  did,  a 
little  lunching  room. 

With  the  last  course  his  coffee  was 
brought.  Instantly  another  waiter  en- 
tered and  swiftly  removed  the  cup.  Amid 
(82) 


the  loud  talk  and  joking  going  on  at  other 
tables,  the  waiter  again  came  to  his  side. 
Handing  him  another  cup  of  coffee  he  hur- 
riedly whispered.  "There  was  poison  in 
that  cup!  Do  not  enter  here  again!  And 
if  you  value  your  life,  escape  from  this 
town!" 

Rudolfo  told  the  missionary.  "Yes," 
said  the  good  man,  "I  have  been  aware 
that  thy  life  is  in  danger,  and  I  have  made 
arrangement  for  thee  to  go  away  for  a 
while,  to  our  school  of  preparation  for  the 
ministry.  There  thou  wilt  learn,  and  be 
safe,  at  least  till  danger  here  has  passed." 

The  missionary  accompanied  him  part 
way,  when  by  train  he  went  to  the  cen- 
tral part  of  Mexico.  Here  he  was  wel- 
comed by  fellow  countrymen,  who  were 
preparing  for  usefulness  in  their  own  land. 
He  was  happy  in  his  new  surroundings, 
but  often,  across  it  all,  there  fell  a  shad- 
ow. His  mother,  alone  and  unhappy,  if 
she  only  could  be  with  him!  And  Elena, 
his  beautiful  one!  Oh,  if  he  could  know 
where  she  was! 

A  few  days  later  an  errand  took  him 
into  the  other  part  of  the  town  where  was 
a  Protestant  boarding  school  for  girls.  As 
he  neared  the  gateway  he  saw  several  girls 
standing.  Even  at  that  distance  the  out- 
line and  movements  of  one  of  them  at- 
(83) 


tracted  his  attention.  Suddenly  his  heart 
gave  a  joyous  bound,  for  before  him  he 
saw  his  lost  Elena, 

The  girl  turned,  looked,  and  cried  out, 
"Rufo!  Oh,  Rufo!  -Can  It  be!" 

"Elena,  my  own  lost  one!  Tell  me,  I 
pray  thee!" 

Instinctively  the  other  girls  withdrew. 
"I  can  not  tell  you  all  now.  Some  other 
time  I  will.  I  was  deceived,  and  carried 
to  the  Sisters  Angelina's  school.  But  I 
was  there  only  a  short  time.  My  Heav- 
enly Father  granted  me  speedy  release. 
One  morning,  the  sister,  who  had  come  to 
see  me  at  early  dawn,  to  learn  whether 
I  would  recant,  left  the  door  open.  I  think 
she  intended  to  return  at  once.  Day  was 
just  beginning  to  break.  The  hall  was 
still  dark,  but  I  fled  through  an  open  door 
into  the  court,  and  found  the  back  gate 
unlocked,  for  the  servant  had  just  passed. 
New  strength  was  given  me,  and  I  ran  and 
ran,  not  knowing  whether  I  was  pursued 
01  not.  There  was  scarce  any  person  on 
the  street.  At  last  I  reached  an  open 
door  where  stood  a  foreign  lady.  I  felt 
somehow  that  she  would  protect  me.  I 
fell  before  her,  but  she  raised  and  led  me 
within,  and  though  she  could  not  talk  with 
me,  her  husband  came,  who  understood 
my  words. 

(84) 


"They  kept  me,  so  good  and  kind  to 
me  were  they.  I  was  sick  for  a  long  time. 
And  after  I  recovered  they  sent  me  here. 
I  have  been  very  happy,  but  so  often  think 
of  my  mother.  I  have  written  to  her  sev- 
eral times  since  coming  here,  but  receive 
no  reply.  Tell  me  of  'her!" 

Then  he  told  her  what  he  knew,  briefly, 
o.f  all  that  had  happened  since  their  sepa- 
ration. 

"You  have  changed!"  each  said  to  the 
other.  Tne  girl  was  dawning  into  beauti- 
ful womanhood,  the  lines  of  sadness  in 
that  sweet  face  making  it  all  the  more 
lovely;  and  he,  as  handsome  as  ever,  but 
with  the  flash  of  his  black  eyes  under  con- 
trol, and  a  look  of  quiet  repose  upon  the 
strong  face. 

****** 

Years  have  passed;  they  have  both 
completed  their  course  of  study  and  are 
once  again  in  their  own  old  home.  There 
are  two  old  ladies  who  do  not  hesitate  to 
say  that  the  bright  black-eyed  little  boy 
is  their  "grandson."  Indeed,  the  little  one 
does  not  know  which  "grandma"  or  which 
home  is  the  best. 

But  Elena  and  Rudolfo  are  only  home 
for  a  visit.    Their  work  is  elsewhere,  but 
Rudolfo  says  he  has  a   message   for  his 
old  friends  and  townspeople. 
(85) 


The  rented  house  of  the  missionary, 
with  its  best  room  for  the  preaching  serv- 
ice, has  now  given  place  to  the  neat  little 
chapel,  and  this  evening  it  is  Rudolfo,  the 
young  preacher,  who  is  gathering  a  crowd, 
for  he  has  by  no  means  been  forgotten. 

"Friends,"  he  said,  "you  all  know  me— 
the  once  ardent,  reckless  boy,  who  sold 
himself  to  the  priesthood.  I  knew  not  my- 
self then.  But  God  has  revealed  himself 
to  me,  and  he  has  shown  me  myself,  what 
I  am  to  him,  and  what  I  may  do  for  him. 
The  years  that  God  shall  grant  to  me  must 
be  given  to  this  work — to  showing  to  you 
the  same  wonderful  way  that  has  been 
made  plain  to  me. 

"My  old  uncle,  dying,  bequeathed  to  me 
the  crucifix  he  had  worn  upon  his  bosom. 
His  life  was  a  sacrifice  to  the  crucifix. 
Friends,  our  own  land,  our  Mexico,  long 
has  been  a  sacrifice  to  the  crucifix — the 
crucifix  we  see  upon  our  altars,  upon  our 
walls,  upon  our  temple  spires.  We  wea*1 
them  upon  our  bosoms,  beautiful,  golden 
crucifixes.  But,  oh,  how  heavy  they  have 
grown,  till  we  are  sinking,  sinking, 
crushed  beneath  their  weight.  Let  us 
arise!  Let  us  throw  their  weight  from 
us!  It  Is  not  the  crucifix  we  need,  but 
the  cross — the  cross  of  Christ  Oh,  friends 
and  neighbors,  come  with  me!  Let  us 
(  86) 


cease  not  to  cry,  to  warn,  to  raise,  all 
over  our  Mexico,  the  fallen  ones,  and  to 
lead  them  not  to  the  crucifix,  but  to  th^ 
cross  of  Christ!" 


(87) 


THE    HERETICS 

A  STORY  OF  WESTERN  MEXICO 


BY   HARRIET   CRAWFORD 


THE    HERETICS. 


CHAPTER  i. 

DONA    ALICIA   AND   HER  TREASURES. 

"Thou  wilt  watch  most  carefully,  Lola, 
over  these  two!  Do  not  allow  them  ouc 
of  thy  sight!" 

Thus  spake  the  Senora  Alicia  de  Peralta 
to  her  maid,  who  was  about  to  take  in 
charge  the  little  six-year-old  twins, 
Mariana  and  Frederico. 

They  were  to  go  to  the  Plaza,  where 
every  afternoon  gathered  a  merry  crowd; 
friends  to  meet,  richly-dressed  senoritas 
Y'-ith  their  chaperons  and  novios  (lovers) 
to  promenade  together,  venders  of  dulces 
(sweets)  and  cooling  drinks  to  press  the 
throng,  strangers  to  sit  and  watch,  while, 
above  all,  floated  strains  of  beautiful  band 
music,  now  soft  and  low,  now  free  and 
soul  lifting,  for  the  people  of  Mexico  love 
and  make  true  music. 

Dona  Alicia  watched  the  trio  fondly  till 
they  disappeared  from  sight,  and  well 
might  she  be  proud  of  her  own,  for  there 
u  ere  no  lovelier  children  in  all  the  city. 

She  herself  was  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
(91) 


women  when,  as  a  bride,  Don  Fernando 
Peralta  had  brought  her,  a  few  years  be- 
fore, from  the  Capital  City  to  the  new  west 
of  Mexico.  Hers  was  the  beauty  and 
grace  of  high-born  lineage,  and  hers  the 
same  dark,  mournful  Moorish  eyes  for 
which  the  women  of  her  native  Granada 
have  always  been  famous. 

'Small  wonder,  then,  that  friends  had 
declared  they  knew  apart  these  lovely 
baby  twins  only  by  their  eyes;  Mariana's 
black  and  shining  like  stars,  the  boy 
Frederico's  large  and  mournful  like  his 
mother's,  but  with  such  a  look  of  ques- 
tioning wonder  in  their  depths  that  she 
was  wont  to  exclaim  as  she  gathered  him 
in  her  arms,  "Tell  me,  little  son,  only 
speak  and  tell  me  what  thou  wouldst 
know!" 

The  maid,  Lola,  too,  loved  her  beautiful 
charges,  but  once  down  in  the  Plaza,  seat- 
ed under  an  oleander,  her  admiring  and 
handsome  Antonio  by  her  side,  holding 
her  hand  and  whispering  sly  words  of  love 
in  her  ear,  alas!  she  forgot  the  twins  and 
their  mother's  parting  admonition. 

Frederico  was  safe,  seated  near  the  or- 
chestra, filling  his  soul  with  the  music 
that  he  so  loved. 

Mariana,  beautiful  in  white  dress  and 
fluttering  ribbons,  was  flitting  from  table 
(92) 


to  stand  trying  to  decide  from   which  of 
the  fruits  and  dulces  to  buy. 

"This  way,  pretty  one!  Here  is  what 
you  want,"  she  heard,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  a  woman,  head  and  shoulders  envel- 
oped in  her  rebozo  (cotton  shawl).  Her 
eyes  alone  were  visible. 

"Right  over  here  are  lovely  sugar  birds 
and  flowers,  too  lifelike  and  sweet  to  eat, 
but  not  too  sweet  for  thee,  pretty  one.1' 
At  the  same  time  she  took  the  child  by 
the  hand  and  led  her  on. 

It  was  only  a  moment's  walk  across  the 
street,  where  she  lifted  the  girl  into  her 
arms,  wrapping  about  her  the  rebozo  she 
wore.  As  Mariana  struggled  to  free  her- 
self, the  woman  told  her  of  lovely  things 
they  were  soon  to  see.  Once  around  the 
corner,  she  quickened  her  pace,  running 
and  talking  the  while.  Into  an  alley  sh£ 
turned,  and,  lifting  the  door  latch,  en- 
tered a  low  adobe  room. 

The  child  began  to  scream.  "Callate ' 
("Keep  quiet")  was  roughly  spoken. 

An  inner  door  was  opened  and  a  face 
peeped  in. 

"Go  quickly,"  spoke  the  woman,  "and 
send  hither  'El  mozo  del  Diabolo'  (the 
devil's  errand  boy)." 

"Mamma,  oh,  my  mamma!     Take  me  to 
:/iy  mamma!"  cried  the  child. 
(93) 


"Yes,  yes — thou  shalt  soon  go,  very 
soon,"  meanwhile  swiftly  removing  ear 
and  finger  rings  and  a  slender  chain  from 
which  a  cross  was  pendant. 

"Dost  wish  to  see  thy  mother,  child? 
Yes — very  soon — " 

"But  my  rings — my  golden  cross  that 
mamma  gave  me!" 

'^Chit,  nina!  Thy  mother  will  give  thee 
others!" 

The  door  opened  again  and  a  man 
slouched  in.  His  eyes  were  narrow  and 
shifting,  and  he  drew  down  his  hat  to 
cover  from  view  an  ugly  scar  across  his 
temple. 

At  sight  of  him  the  girl  screamed  louder. 
"Valgame!  This  noise  will  never  do! 
Vete!"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "Go  and 
call  Jose  to  take  thy  place.  See  thou  that 
the  horse  be  ready  at  once." 

The  screaming  girl  was  told  that  if  she 
did  not  stop  that  noise,  she  would  not  be 
carried  to  her  mother.  So,  struggling  witli 
her  sobs,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  lifted 
tc  the  horse  in  front  of  a  man  who 
wrapped  about  her  hood  and  cloak. 

"If  thou  dost  make  one  noise,  I  will  not 
take  thee  home!"  spoke  the  man  in  low 
tone,  as  they  emerged  from  the  corral  into 
the  street. 

But  the  streets  grew  dirtier  and  nar- 
(94) 


rower,  the  houses  smaller  and  far  be- 
tween, till  at  length  they  were  upon  a 
bare,  dusty  plain, 

"My  mamma,"  sobbed  the  girl.  "You 
said  you  would  take  me  to  my  mamma!" 

"Callate,  else  I  will  kill  thee  right 
here!" 

Several  leagues  were  covered,  the  terri- 
fied child  daring  to  make  no  noise,  till  the 
horse  turned  up  toward  the  hills,  entering 
a  narrow  canyon,  where,  following  a  path 
through  the  mesquite  growth,  they  sud- 
denly drew  in  before  a  shanty  made  of 
branches  and  grass. 

A  lean  yellow  dog  lying  in  the  doorway 
began  to  growl,  only  to  be  kicked  aside 
by  a  couple  of  ill-appearing  men  with 
faces  partly  hid  from  view  'neath  clouds 
of  tobacco  smoke. 

A  woman  stepped  from  within  and  lifted 
the  trembling  child  to  the  ground. 

"My  mother,  oh,  they  promised  to  take 
me  to  my  mother!"  broke  out  again  the 
girl. 

"To-morrow,  child!  It  be  too  late  this 
clay, — to-morrow!  Maria  Santissima!  What 
a  beauty!  But  how  is  this?  Were  there 
no  jewels,  Jose?" 

Jose  shrugged  his  shoulders,  spat  and 
said  deliberately: 

"Dona  Petra  might  enlighten  thee  as  to 
(95) 


that.    I  took  the  child  as  she  was  handed 
to  me!" 

"How  happens  it  that  thou  hast  dons 
the  carrying,  and  net  'El  mozo  del  Diab- 
olo'?" 

"Quien  sabe!  Unless  it  be  that  this 
lady  was  not  so  well  pleased  with  his 
Icoks  as  with  mine.  Quien  sabe!" 

"This  richly-embroidered  dress  and  un- 
der garments  and  shining  bootees  ill  fit  thy 
surroundings,  child,"  said  the  woman,  lead- 
ing Mariana  within  the  hut  and  removing 
clothes  and  shoes  and  replacing  them  with 
others,  soiled  and  torn. 

"To-morrow  thou  shalt  have  thy  gar- 
ments again  and  return  to  thy  mother!" 

"Those  curls  may  be  an  undesirable 
mark,"  gruffly  spoke  out  one  of  the  men. 
At  the  same  time,  reaching  up,  he  drew 
from  the  entwining  branches  of  the  wall 
a  pair  of  shears  which  he  handed  to  the 
woman. 

Back  in  a  shadowed  corner  of  the  room, 
all  this  time,  there  reclined  upon  a  bed  of 
rags,  a  lad  of  perhaps  ten  or  twelve  years, 
intently  watching.  He  straightened  up  as 
the  woman  began  to  clip  the  black  glossy 
curls. 

"My  hair!  My  curls!  Papa's  curls  they 
are!"  screamed  the  child.  "Oh,  do  not  cut 
them!" 

(96) 


At  that  instant,  up  sprang  the  boy,  with 
blazing  eyes,  and,  leaping  across  the 
room,  with  one  swift  blow  he  knocked  the 
shears  from  the  woman's  hand. 

"The  devil  is  loose!"  she  screamed.  One 
of  the  men  burst  into  a  coarse  laugh,  while 
the  other,  striding  to  the  boy,  seized  him 
by  the  arm,  and,  drawing  from  his  side  a 
long  knife,  held  it  aloft. 

"Kill  me!"  cried  the  boy.  "But  only 
cowards  harm  a  beautiful  little  girl  like 
this!" 

Amid  shouts  of  laughter  the  knife  was 
replaced  and  the  boy  pushed  back  to  his 
corner,  while  the  curls  were  all  removed. 
And  now,  in  place  of  Mariana,  the  beauti- 
ful little  daughter  of  Peralta,  stood  a 
ragged,  shorn,  tear-stained,  trembling  lit- 
tle creature  whom  even  her  own  mother 
would  not  have  known. 

Scarce  knowing  what  she  did,  she  stag- 
gered toward  the  boy,  and  as  none  for- 
bade her,  fell  down  beside  him. 

"Do  not  cry,  bonita,"  whispered  the  boy 
as  he  reached  out  and  drew  her  to  him. 
She  clung  to  him,  sobbing,  "Mamma,  oh, 
my  mamma!" 

"You  will  see  mamma,  I  think,  in  a  few 
days,"  he  whispered  again. 

But  night  was  creeping  down  the  moun- 
tain side,  over  the  canyon  and  hut,  as  if 
(97) 

7 


to  hide  from  view  its  cruelty  and  crime. 
On  the  ground,  outside,  still  glowed  the 
remnants  of  a  few  burning  sticks  of  wood, 
and  on  these  coals  stood  an  earthen  Jar 
ot  atole  (cornmeal  gruel).  The  woman 
poured  from  it  into  an  earthen  cup,  and 
carried  it  to  the  children. 

"Drink,  little  one,"  said  the  boy,  holding 
to  her  the  cup.  But  she  refused.  "Yes, 
thou  must  drink!  I  want  thee  to.  '  Thou 
must  keep  well  to  see  mamma  again!" 

:She  took  the  cup  and  drank.  "Now,  do 
not  be  afraid!  I  will  not  let  them  hurt 
thee.  Lie  down  and  sleep."  And  he  ar- 
ranged more  .smoothly  the  bed  of  rage. 

The  embers  burned  out.  The  stars,  one 
by  one,  awoke,  peeping  down  through  the 
openings  in  the  roof.  The  owls  called  to 
each  other  up  in  the  ravine,  while  further 
up  was  heard  the  cry  of  a  coyote.  .  .  . 
And  through  it  all  slept  the  hardened  men 
and  women,  each  wrapped  in  a  blanket, 
lying  upon  the  ground  floor,  across  the 
doorway. 

But  the  boy  lay  upon  his  couch  of  rags 
thinking — thinking.  He  could  not  sleep. 
He,  too,  had  been  stolen  from  home  and 
fond  parents.  (Several  times  he  had  at- 
tempted escape,  but  each  time  had  been 
prevented.  He  knew  not  what  was  to  be 
his  fate,  and  from  fright  and  resistance 
(98) 


hn  had  grown  into  a  sullen  despair.  But 
that  night  something  new  had  come  into 
his  life.  This  little  helpless  creature,  and 
he  must  arouse  himself  and  become  a  man 
that  he  might  protect  her.  And  as  the 
little  fevered  girl  tossed  and  moaned  in 
her  sleep,  sobbing,  "Mamma,  mamma,"  he 
reached  up  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her. 


(  99) 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MOTHER  OF  GOD. 

Meanwhile,  there  was  great  consterna- 
tion down  at  the  Plaza,  when  it  was 
known  that  Mariana  was  missing.  The 
terrified  and  conscience-stricken  Lola  r3- 
fused  to  return  to  her  mistress.  An  of- 
ficer took  the  boy  and  the  sad  tidings  to 
the  home.  Through  the  night  and  through 
the  following  days,  search  was  made  ail 
over  the  city,  while  the  mother  lay  in 
swoons  and  critical  iliness.  But  no  little 
girl  was  found. 

As  s-oon  as  able  to  arise  from  her  bed, 
she  crawled  to  an  inner  chamber,  where, 
prostrate  before  the  shrine  and  painted 
image  of  the  Virgin,  she  moaned: 

"Oh,  Holy  Mother  oi!  God,  Holy  Virgin, 
bring  to  me  my  child!" 

The  boy,  Frederico,  who  scarce  had  left 
his  mother's  side  these  days  of  grief,  stood 
listening,  and  looking  with  those  big, 
questioning  eyes.  The  mother  continued 
her  pleading,  the  boy  still  watching,  while 
the  candles  burned  on  and  the  image  still 
looked  down  upon  them. 

"Mamacita,"  whispered  the  boy,  draw- 
(100) 


ing  close  to  his  mother.  "Look,  she  heeds 
not!  Thou  hast  told  me  of  God  who  made 
us  all.  Isn't  God  the  greatest?  Why  dost 
thou  not  ask  of  him?" 

"Yes,  true,  little  son,"  replied  the  moth- 
er, arousing  herself.  "Yet  thou  mayest  not 
speak  thus  lightly  of  our  holy  blessed  Vir- 
gin.'' 

But  continued  supplications  to  the  Holy 
Virgin  brought  no  little  girl,  no  consola- 
tion to  the  mother's  breaking  heart.  In 
despair  she  sought  her  priest  at  the  con- 
fessional. 

"Oh,  Father,"  she  cried,  "is  it  because 
of  isin  of  mine  that  I  am  thus  punished? 
Tell  me,  I  beseech  thee,  what  of  penance 
I  may  do,  or  of  offering  I  may  bring  that 
I  may  find  my  daughter!" 

The  priest  looked  a  moment  upon  the 
broken  woman.  He  saw  his  opportunity 
but  he  answered  guardedly: 

"No,  daughter,  thou  hast  committed  no 
sin.  This  is  not  a  punishment.  It  is  in- 
deed a  strange  dispensation,  but  methinks 
it  is  yet  to  be  for  good;  for  thine  own 
sanctification  and  to  be  for  the  greater 
glory  of  our  own  blessed  Virgin  and 
Mother.  Sha1!  I  make  intercession  to  her 
for  thee?  Surely  thou  dost  know  her 
power,  for  'many  things  are  asked  of  God 

(101) 


and  are  not  granted;  they  are  asked  from 
Mary  and  are  obtained.  And  how  is  this? 
It  is  because  God  has  thus  decreed  to 
honor  his  Mother.'  (Glories  of  Mary,  p, 
113.) 

"  'Why!  Mary  was  made  mediatress 
even  or  our  salvation.  It  is  true,  that  in 
dying  Jesus  wished  to  be  alone;  but  when 
God  saw  the  great  desire  of  Mary  to  de- 
vote herself  also  to  the  salvation  of  men, 
he  ordained  that  by  the  sacrifice  and  of- 
fering of  the  life  of  this  same  Jesus,  she 
might  co-operate  with  him  in  the  work  of 
our  salvation,  and  thus  become  the  Mother 
of  our  souls.'  (Glories  of  Mary,  p.  43.) 

"  'All  who  are  saved  are  saved  only  by 
means  of  this  divine  Mother'  (p.  8').  'God 
has  placed  the  whole  price  of  redemption 
in  the  hands  of  Mary,  that  she  may  dis- 
pense it  at  will'  (p.  85).  'Our  salvation 
is  in  the  hands  of  Mary.  He  who  is  pro- 
tected by  Mary  will  be  saved;  he  who  is 
not  will  be  lost'  (p.  144).  'At  the  com- 
mand of  Mary,  all  obey,  even  God'  (p. 
155). 

"Then,  daughter,  if  her  power  is  thus 
equal  with  God's  in  the  soul's  salvation, 
she  has  power  to  bring  again  to  thee  thy 
lost.  Shall  I  invoke  her  aid?" 

"Oh,  yes,  do,  Father!" 

( 102  > 


"But  thou  dost  know  that  before  any- 
thing can  be  done,  money  will  be  neces- 
sary ?" 

Dona  Alicia  raised  her  head.  For  the 
first  time  the  words  of  her  priest  grated 
harshly  on  her  ears.  "Money,  money! 
Why  was  it  always  money!  For  pity,  for 
love  of  her  and  her  child  ought  he  to  be 
willing  to  aid,  and  not  for  money!  He 
was  cruel!'' 

Her  heart  smote  her  for  this  thought  of 
her  priest,  and  she  replied: 

"Yes,  Father,  how  much  will  be  re- 
quired?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  man  slowly,  "a 
great  many  masses  will  be  required,  for 
our  earnestness  will  be  tested;  six  hun- 
dred dollars — say,  five  hundred,  for  thou 
hast  ever  been  a  faithful  daughter  of  the 
Church!" 

Dona  Alicia  did  not  reply.  "My  hus- 
band, what  will  he  think  and  say?''  flashed 
through  her  mind.  The  only  thorn  in  the 
happy  married  life  of  Dona  Alicia  and 
Don  Fernando  Peralta  had  been  her  priest. 

"Thou  art  allowing  another  man,  thy 
priest,  to  come  in  between  us!  He  it  is, 
and  not  thy  husband,  who  holds  the  se- 
crets of  thy  heart.  Many  a  home  has  thus 
been  broken.  Many  lives  have  thus  been 

(103) 


separated.  Thou  dost  know  this,  Alicia, 
yet  I  love  and  trust  thee,  my  wife.  Nor 
is  this  all;  they  have  taken  from  me,  too, 
my  money  on  false  pretenses.  I  begrudge 
it  not  when  deserved,  but  when  they  de- 
ceive to  get  it  from  me,  I  will  refuse." 

Thus  had  often  said  her  husband  to  her, 
and  it  was  such  words  as  these  that 
rushed  to  her  memory  as  she  stood,  silent, 
before  her  priest. 

"Is  it  not  worth  the  cost,  my  daughter?" 
said  the  man,  noticing  her  hesitancy. 

"Yes — oh,  yes — but  my  husband!"  she 
faltered. 

"Need  thy  husband  know?  Is  not  the 
money  thine  as  well  as  his?" 

The  woman  recoiled  as  from  a  blow. 
Looking  into  her  eyes,  the  priest  knew  he 
had  blundered. 

Ere  he  could  reply,  she  arose.  "I  will 
tell  my  husband.  He  will  send  to  you  the 
money.'' 


(104) 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE  RANSOM. 

Mariana  clung  to  her  new  found  pro- 
tector. They  were  continually  watched, 
not  allowed  out  of  sight;  yet  they  often 
had  frequent  opportunities  for  conversa- 
tion, spending  hours  together  sitting  under 
the  trees  near  to  tne  nut. 

Aurelio  told  her  his  story.  His  lovely 
hacienda  home  was  only  ten  leagues  from 
the  city  where  Mariana  lived.  Indeed,  he 
remembered  that  the  supplies  from  the 
hacienda  were  bought  at  the  big  store  of 
Peralta,  Mariana's  father.  Aurelio  was  an 
only  child,  accustomed  to  the  plain  and 
to  long  rides  on  his  pony,  accompanying 
the  peons  or  alone.  On  such  occasion, 
he  was  pursued  and  seized  by  a  couple  of 
men  and  carried  to  this  place.  From 
occasional  words  which  he  had  over- 
heard he  had  concluded  that  he  was  being 
held  for  a  ransom.  This  he  supposed  was 
Mariana's  situation  also,  and  he  comforted 
her  by  assurance  of  their  return  in  time. 

"Can  we  not  run  away  some  dark  night, 
Aurelio,  and  find  my  home?"  asked  the 
child. 

(105) 


"No,  no!  It  is  far, — leagues  and  leagues. 
Thsou  couldst  not  walk  so  far,  and  they 
would  soon  find  us  again.  If  we  try  ito 
run  away,  they  may  hurt  us,  for  I  have 
tried  it  many  a  time.  But  if  we  keep 
quiet,  we  will  all  the  sooner  be  sent  home. 
They  are  waiting  tor  money.'' 

"Oh,  my  papa  is  rich,  he  will  send  them 
money.  Shall  I  tell  them?" 

"No,  we  musit  keep  quiet  and  wait" 

One  morning  Aurelio  led  her  to  a  distant 
rock  where  they  often  sat  together.  "Some- 
thing is  going  to  happen!"  he  said,  speak- 
ing hurriedly.  "I  have  heard  some  words, 
I  am  to  be  sent  home!" 

"And  I,  too?"  interrupted  the  excited 
child. 

"Be  very  quiet!"  continued  Aurelio.  "No, 
queridita,  I  fear  it  is  only  I,  but  I  promise 
this, — I  will  go  at  once  and  tell  your  papa 
where  you  are."  Mariana  was  crying  and 
laughing. 

"Come  here,"  said  the  boy,  and  stooping, 
he  drew  from  under  the  rock  a  little  packet. 
Unwrapping  the  rags,  he  disclosed  a  dainty, 
slender  golden  chain  with  a  little  hanging 
cross. 

"Oh,  it  is  just  like  the  one  they  took 
from  me,"  said  the  girl,  breathing  hard. 

"Yes,  my  mother  gave  it  to  me,  she  said, 
because  she  had  no  girl.  I  was  to  wear  it 
(106) 


to  remind  me  to  pray  morning  and  even- 
ing to  our  blessed  Virgin  Mary.  When  they 
took  from  me  my  clothes,  as  they  did  thine, 
I  snatched  this  from  my  neck  and  put  it 
in  my  mouith.  Then  when  they  did  not  see, 
I  slipped  it  into  my  shoe,  till  I  could  hide 
it  out  of  doors.  I  will  give  it  to  thee  to 
keep  till  I  see  thee  again.  But  I  must  hide 
it  again,  and  do  noit  take  it  from  this  place 
till  thou  art  going,  for  they  will  see  it  and 
take  it  from  thee." 

"Oh,  I  am  &o  glad.  It  is  so  pretty! 
But  I  wish  I  had  something  (to  give  to 
thee!" 

"I  have  already  something  of  thine!" 
laughed  the  boy,  pulling  from  under  his 
torn  little  shirt  a  shining  black  curl.  "I 
found  this  where  they  had  thrown  thine 
hair,  thy  beautiful  curls,  and  I  will  keep  it 
to  make  me  think  of  thee.  And  I  will 
look  for  thy  papa,  and  soon  thou,  too,  wilt 
be  home  again!" 

"Oh,  quickly,  so  quickly!"  cried  little 
Mariana. 

"They  are  calling  us  now,"  added  the  boy, 
stooping  to  hide  the  packet,  and  ito  pick  up 
a  handful  of  pebbles  as  an  excuse. 

There  was<  no  further  opportunity  for 
wiordis.  The  boy  was  told  to  put  on  quick- 
ly his  own  clothes,  which  had  been  hidden 
from  him.  He  saw  two  men  on  horses.  He 
(107) 


was  told  to  climb  behind  one  of  the 
men.  Mariana  shuddered,  for  she  saw 
again  the  fellow  with  shifting  eyes  and  the 
ecar  across  his  forehead.  But  she  had 
learned  to  make  no  outbreaks.  Only  an 
interchange  of  looks  was  there  between 
the  children — one  of  loving  farewell,  the 
other  of  mute,  longing  appeal. 

The  boy  saw  they  were  approaching  the 
city,  Mariana's  city. 

"I  will  cry  out  in  the  streets!  I  will 
shout  and  tell  them  where  she  is,  that 
they  may  go  at  once  and  get  her!"  said 
the  boy  to  himself. 

Jusit  outside  the  wall  they  halted,  by 
the  shrine  of  the  Virgin,  where  travel- 
ers were  wont  to  stop  and  pray  for  safe 
journey.  One  of  the  men,  reaching  under 
the  hollow  pedestal,  drew  something  forth. 
His  eyes  gleamed. 

"Well  for  thee,  boy,  that  this  is  here!'' 
he  exclaimed  to  Aurelio.  "Now  run  to  the 
inn  of  San  Andres  and  find  those  who  will 
be  awaiting  thee." 

Then  looking  again  with  gloating  eye 
over  the  money,  he  exclaimed,  "And  large 
share  of  this  is  mine!  I  will  get  it!" 

Reaching  the  inn,  Aurelio  saw  his  fath- 
er standing.  Rushing  Inito  his  arms,  he 
oiied: 

"Oh,  here  I  am,  but  Mariana  is  still 
there!  Tell  her  father  to  go  now— now— to 
(108) 


get  her — back  there  in  the  canyon;  she 
is— back  in  the  hill©!" 

Then  followed  an  hour  of  excitement, 
friends  gathering  about  the  boy,  others  in 
search  of  Peralta,  Mariana's  father,  who 
was  to  have  an  armed  force  and  go  to  the 
rescue  of  his  little  girl. 

But  none  had  taken  special  note  of  one 
who  stood  by  in  the  crowd,  with  apparent 
indifference,  his  hat  pulled  low  over  an 
ugly  line  across  his  temple,  and  who,  dis- 
appearing, secured  a  fresh  horse  and  fled 
with  rapid  pace  across  the  plain,  up  into 
the  canyon. 

Events  had  been  moving  rapidly  the  last 
few  days.  As  soon  as  Aurelio'is  mother 
knew  that  her  son  was  released,  upon  the 
deposit  of  money  under  the  shrine,  she, 
too,  formed  her  plan.  She  had  not  suc- 
cumbed, as  had  Mariana'®  mother,  and  now, 
as  resolute  as  ever,  she  declared  her  inten- 
tion to  take  her  son,  at  once,  with  her  by 
train  down  to  the  seaport,  from  thence 
by  steamer  down  the  coast,  by  caravan 
across  the  country  to  Guadalajara  and  to 
Mexico  City,  where  lived  her  brother. 
Nothing  but  death,  she  declared,  could  pre- 
vent her  departure  from  the  scene  of  her 
anguish.  Her  husband  could  dispose  of 
the  property  and  follow. 

They  were  to  go  at  once.     "But  not  till 

(109) 


I  see  my  dear  little  Mariana,"  cried  th« 
boy.  "I  promised  'her,  and  I  want  to  see 
her  again!" 

But  the  Senor  Peralffca  agreed  to  write  as 
soon  as  Ms  daughter  could  be  recovered. 

That  afternoon,  as  the  vessel  bearing  Au- 
relio  and  his  mother  was  steaming  out  of 
the  gulf,  and  as  Senor  Peralta,  with  his 
armed  force,  was  nearing  the  mouth  of 
ithe  canyon,  a  little  group  was  winding  its 
way  around  the  foot  hills  beyond;  a  lean, 
old  horse,  with  a  woman,  seated  thereon, 
holding  in  front  of  her  a  little  girl,  while 
a  man  and  a  hungry-looking  yellow  dog 
walked  by  their  side. 


(  HO) 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A    DESERTED    CITY. 

Several  years  had  passed.  A  terrible 
scourge  was  sweeping  the  west  coast  of 
Mexico;  "Fiebre  Amarillo"  men  called  it 
(Yellow  Fever).  Sanitary  restrictions 
were  feeble,  and  the  pestilence  spread 
like  fire  across  a  dry  plain.  Many  had 
fled  at  once,  by  the  one  railroad,  across 
to  Arizona.  But  when  the  trains  were 
cut  off,  the  masses,  now  thoroughly 
alarmed,  sought  escape  to  the  mountains, 
to  the  haciendas,  anywhere,  burying  their 
money  and  valuables  till  they  might  re- 
turn. 

Among  these  latter  were  the  Senor 
Peralta,  his  wife  and  little  Frederico. 
Her  strange  indifference  to  the  danger  had 
prevented  their  earlier  escape,  and  this 
delay  had  proved  fatal  to  the  kind  Senor 
Peralta. 

"Take  my  boy  and  his  mother  at  once, 
Juan,"  he  had  said  to  his  faithful  ser- 
vant. "Hire  a  carriage,  and  take  them 
across  the  country,  up  over  our  northern 
line,  where  they  may  take  the  train  to  the 
City  of  Mexico.  Thou  wilt  not  lack  for 
(HI) 


means.  Lift  up  the  bricks  under  my  bed. 
and  there  thou  wilt  find  the  money  and 
the  jewels  which  thou  mayst  sell.  Hasten, 
my  good  Juan!" 

Only  a  few  hours  of  intense  suffering 
and  the  good  Don  Fernando  was  borne 
away  to  be  laid  in  the  hastily  prepared 
burying  place,  where  lay,  side  by  side, 
the  rich  and  poor  alike. 

Juan  would  not  leave  his  master  till 
he  was  tenderly  placed  away.  And  when 
he  returned  to  search  for  the  burie-1 
treasures,  he  found  the  bricks  upturned, 
but  nothing  there. 

He  did  not  know  that  one  standing 
without,  listening  under  the  window,  had 
heard;  one  with  narrow,  glittering  eye* 
and  a  dark  mark  across  his  forehead. 
And  he  had  laughed  aloud  when  he  held 
in  his  hand  gold  and  pearls,  rare  pearls, 
white,  green  and  black,  which  the  divers 
had  drawn  from  the  deep  Gulf  waters. 

"Ah,  now,"  he  had  exclaimed,  "now  I 
am  rich!  No  longer  need  they  call  me 
'Devil's  errand  boy,'  nor  anybody's  errand 
boy!  My  own  master  now  I  am,  for  rich 
I  am!  I,  too,  may  leave  this  city,  and 
live  and  travel  and  be  a  gentleman!" 

Little  did  it  matter  that  Juan  had 
found  no  gold,  for  his  well  loved  mistress 
had  succumbed,  and  she,  too,  was  carried 

(112) 


away.  But  by  strangers,  for  Juan  himself 
\\as  prostrated.  Recovering  after  a  few 
days,  he  found  little  Frederico  crouching 
by  his  side,  they  two  the  only  occupants 
of  the  once  beautiful  home  of  Peralta. 

After  a  few  months  the  pestilence  had 
spent  itself,  and  the  people  began  to  re- 
turn. But  a  strange  city  it  looked,  and 
men  wept  as  they  looked  into  empty 
houses  and  streets  full  of  rubbish  which 
had  been  thrown  away  in  hasty  flight. 

But  the  deserted  houses  began  again  t» 
be  opened.  Into  the  churches  gather?  ] 
again  the  people,  masses  to  be  purchase  1 
and  said  for  the  many  dear  departed,  con- 
fessions to  be  made  and  penance  to  uo 
worked  out.  The  Church  took  possession 
o'  homes  where  there  were  none  to  pro 
Ujct.  The  house  of  Peralta  was  one.  Tt 
was  renovated  and  refitted  for  a  boys' 
school,  to  be  in  charge  of  a  new  priest-. 
"Father  Lorenzo,"  just  from  the  City  oi 
Mexico.  Juan  was  to  continue  his  minis- 
trations and  Frederico  was  to  become  a 
member  of  the  boys'  school.  His  voice, 
now  recognized  as  a  talent,  placed  him 
at  lead  in  the  boys'  choir  in  the  bi'4 
cathedral. 

"La  vos  de  un  Angel"   (The  voice  of  an 
Angel)  men  called  it,  for  it  was  a  wonder- 
ful   voice,    and     they     gathered     into    the 
(113) 

8 


cathedral  to  hear  it.  Soft  and  sweet,  ye* 
clear,  though  far  away,  it  sounded,  as  if 
an  echo  from  heaven  above.  Then  burst- 
ing forth,  the  music  filled  all  space,  till 
listeners,  far  delight,  could  no  longer  keep 
their  seats,  and,  looking  up  to  see  the 
singer,  they  saw  only  a  lad,  with  thin, 
small  face,  but  whose  big,  dark  eyes 
looked  far  away. 


(114) 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   VERY   STRANGE  THING. 

But  a  very  strange  thing  had  happened. 
Dona  Alicia  had  been  removed  by  stran- 
gers' hands,  who  laid  her  upon  the  ground 
among  the  dead,  and  quickly  made  their 
own  escape.  Later  on  came  others  more 
merciful,  who  were  preparing  to  lay  her 
away,  when  they  saw  signs  of  life. 

"For  Dios!  Que  es  este?  (What  is  this?) 
She  still  lives.  A  woman  of  high  rank, 
too!  Is  there  no  one  who  will  have  pity?" 
and  they  lifted  her  to  the  nearest  dwelling. 

"We  know  not  who  this  may  be,  but 
will  ye  have  mercy  and  care  for  her,  that 
she  may  yet  return  to  those  who  mourn 
her?" 

And  live  she  did,  but  it  was  weeks  be- 
fore she  cared  to  ask  where  she  was,  or 
to  ask  aught  about  her  friends  or  family. 
Then  she  was  told  that  the  family  of 
Fernando  Peralta  was  no  more,  either  dead 
they  were,  or  had  left  the  city,  her  bene- 
factors knew  not  which.  Her  home,  too, 
they  told  her,  had  become  the  new  acad- 
emy for  boys. 

The  jewels  found  about  her  person  re- 
(115) 


paid  these  Good  Samaritans  and  also  paid 
her  passage,  by  stage,  to  the  Hacienda 
Roja,  where  merciful  strangers  had  con- 
sented to  her  stay  for  a  while,  which  con- 
tinued, for  the  inmates  of  the  hacienda 
soon  learned  to  love  the  gentle,  beautiful 
woman,  whose  face  was  young,  but  whose 
hair  was  white.  No  one  knew  other 
name  than  Dona  Alicia.  But  the  children 
loved  to  gather  about  and  listen  to  her 
stories  of  a  far-away  country — beautiful 
Spain,  she  called  it — where  ladies  wore 
rich  silks  and  jewels  every  day,  and  walked 
on  soft  carpets;  where  knights  in  velvet 
garments,  and  with  white  plumes  in  their 
hats,  walked  beside  them  or  kneeled  at 
their  feet;  where  the  houses  were  great 
towered  castles,  and  the  cups  from  which 
they  drank  were  made  of  gold  and  silver. 
Sometimes  she  told  them  of  two  beautiful 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  whose  mother 
loved  them  tenderly,  but  she  never  spoke 
their  names.  She  never  laughed,  but  her 
smile  was  so  gentle  that  even  the  fretful 
baby,  whom  no  one  else  could  quiet,  loved 
to  lie  in  her  arms  and  look  up  into  her 
face.  Beautiful  embroideries,  too,  she 
stitched,  which  they  took  into  the  city 
to  sell  in  payment  for  their  kindness. 

"Why  do  you  never  go  with  us  into  the 
city?"  inquired  the  children.     "It  Is  love- 
die) 


ly  there!  The  cathedral  is  so  big  and 
grand!  The  padres  and  the  bishop  so 
elegant  In  their  fine  garments,  the  boys 
In  the  choir  sing  so  beautifully,  and — oh, 
there  is  one  among  them  who  sings — oh, 
so  heavenly  is  his  voice,  that  his  name 
is  'Voice  of  an  Angel.'  Will  you  not  go 
with  us,  Dona  Alicia?" 

"Some  time,  children,  I  will.  Not  this 
time,"  was  ever  the  reply. 

But  upon  each  return  from  the  city 
she  watched  to  see  if  there  might  be  a 
letter,  for  she  had  written  her  brother  in 
Mexico,  making  inquiries. 

But  no  letter  ever  came. 


(117) 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"THE  HERETICS"  AND  FATHEK  LORENZO. 

Several  years  had  passed.  The  city  was 
fast  growing  into  new  life.  The  trains 
from  the  North  were  bringing  many  for- 
eigners who  were  learning  that,  in  West- 
ern Mexico,  lay  great  wealth,  gold  and 
silver  and  copper  buried  under  the  high 
mountains. 

Among  these  came  two — a  man  and  his 
wife — who  seemed  in  no  great  haste.  They 
were  in  no  quest  of  gold  or  silver.  They 
rented  a  house,  and  soon  those  passing 
along  the  street  saw  behind  the  barred 
windows  a  display  of  books,  large  and 
small,  but  mostly  Bibles.  Those  who  chose 
to  enter  took  away  with  them  leaflets  and 
papers. 

Then  it  began  to  be  told  about  that  these 
newcomers  were  "heretics.5'  a  dangerous, 
godless  people.  The  books  they  had  sold 
and  given  away  were  very  harmful;  the 
Bibles,  indeed,  were  not  genuine,  for  they 
were  "heretic  Bibles."  As  far  as  possible, 
those  who  had  bought  were  ordered  to 
bring  them  to  the  Cura,  and  they  were 
burned  in  front  of  the  cathedral  as  a 
(118) 


warning.  From  the  pulpit,  excommunica- 
tions were  threatened  to  such  as  should 
have  dealing  with  these  heretics,  said  ex- 
communications meaning  the  everlasting 
loss  of  souls.  Along  the  street  walls 
were  posters  whidi  read: 

"Beware  of  the  heretics!  They  are 
devils!  Excommunication  from  the  most 
Holy  Church  to  any  who  shall  buy  or  sell 
to  them,  talk  or  listen  to  them,  or  upon 
wham  their  shadow  even  shall  fall!" 

But  the  heretic  still  walked  the  streets. 
His  was  a  kindly  face,  men  said,  and  when 
he  smiled,  they  said,  "Surely  no  devil  can 
smile  like  that!" 

Amd  though  there  were  many  who 
shunned  him,  there  \vere  others,  who, 
standing  in  their  shop  doors,  would  say, 
with  a  sly  wink,  as  he  passed: 

"Come  in  here,  Senor  Heretic,  buy  of 
me.  The  Holy  Church  will  not  think  my 
poor  soul  worth  the  cutting  off!" 

Gradually,  people,  losing  fear,  would 
gather  into  the  front  room  or  listen  out- 
side the  window  while  the  heretic  told  his 
story.  The  story  of  Him  whose  sacrifice 
upon  the  cross  was  so  complete  that  there 
was  no  longer  need  for  intercedence  of 
virgin,  priest  or  saint. 

Meanwhile,  the  boys'  school,  under  the 
direction  of  the  new  Father  Lorenzo, 
(119) 


growing.  His  pupils  all  loved  him,  for 
there  was  something  about  the  quiet  man 
which  drew  them.  He  seemed  to  have 
passed  through*  some  sorrow  which  made 
him  sympathetic.  Frederico,  the  lonely 
boy,  was  especially  drawn  toward  him. 
Father  Lorenzo,  in  turn,  took  the  boy  into 
his  heart.  So  often  were  they  seen  to- 
gether that  they  became  known  as  uncle 
and  nephew.  The  boy  loved  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  sit  by  his  side  and  listen  to 
stories  of  the  great  City  of  Mexico,  where 
his  life  had  been  spent. 

"A  strong,  wild  people  had  lived  there 
once,"  he  told  the  boy.  "Then  had  come 
men  from  Spain,  in  the  name  of  the  holy 
Catholic  faith,  and  had  conquered  these 
bloody  people,  and  had  given  to  them,  in- 
stead of  their  idols,  beautiful  painted  pic- 
tures and  images  to  worship." 

But  when  the  old  priest  told  of  the  cruel- 
ties by  which  the  Spaniard  drew  from 
the  Indians  their  jewels  and  their  gold, 
his  voice  trembled  and  'his  dark  eyes 
burned  darker. 

"Tell  me  again  of  the  Indian  who  fought 
that  his  people  might  live,"  eaicl  the  boy. 

Then  springing  to  his  feet  and  walking 

the    room,    the    old    man    would  tell  again 

of  Juarez,    the    fearless    Indian,    who    for 

fourteen  years  braved  all  dangers,  though 

(120) 


hunted  like  a  wild  thing,  meeting  the 
enemy  again  and  again,  and  conquering 
at  last,  that  his  people  might  think  and 
worship  as  they  pleased.  He  it  was  to 
whom  Victor  Hugo  wrote,  "America  has 
two  heroes,  Lincoln,  by  whom  slavery  has 
died;  Thee,  by  whom  liberty  has  lived." 

"My  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  still  walk- 
ing the  floor  and  closing  his  lips  in  that 
way  Frederico  had  noticed  of  late,  "my  boy, 
those  were  dark  days  for  Mexico.  For 
three  hundred  years  had  she  been  under  a 
power  (I  will  not  say  more  of  that  power) 
which  kept  her  as  a  slave,  till  one  man — 
one  man — rose  and  said,  'My  people  shall 
think  and  worship  as  they  please.'  But 
there  were  others  then  who  thought  and 
fought  with  him.  There  be  others  now 
who  would  dare  the  same,  for  even  now 
there  be  those  who  may  not  think  and 
worship  as  they  please.'' 

The  ooy  wondered,  though  little  he  un- 
derstood. He  did  not  know  that  in  the 
veins  of  Father  Lorenzo  ran  the  same 
•blood  of  the  Indian  Juairez  and  the  same 
deep  love  for  liberty  in  all.  Nor  did  he 
know  that,  in  the  City  of  Mexico,  strange 
things  had  been  said  of  him.  That  he  had 
dared  to  do  his  own  thinking  and  his  own 
•teaching,  which  the  Church  called  "in- 
subordination." For  this  he  had  been  sent 
(121) 


•to  the  new  field,  in  hope  that  new  sur- 
roundings, and  new  duties  would  bring  him 
to  himself  again,  for  he  was  too  valuable 
•a  scholar  and  a  worker  to  lose. 

But  strange  things  were  whispered  about 
•him,  even  now.  When  the  poor  came  to 
him  for  baptism  or  for  marriage,  his  fees 
were  very  low.  Fellow  priests  scoffed  him 
and  called  him  "a  fool,''  "not  knowing 
his  own  chances." 

•  "They  pay  me  what  they  are  able!  I 
wish  no  more.  Most  of  our  poor  live  with- 
out a  marriage  rite  because  they  are  not 
•able  to  pay  what  our  Church  requires  of 
them.  Shall  we,  their  priests,  help  them 
on  in  their  unholy  living?" 

It  was  also  said  that  he  had  once  told 
a  penitent,  "I  can  not  forgive  thy  sin! 
Take  it  to  God!" 

"Why,  man,"  exclaimed  the  angry  bishop, 
when  calling  him  to  account,  "what  dost 
thou  mean  by  thus  belittling  the  power  of 
the  priesthood?" 

"I  hear,  too,"  said  the  bishop,  "that  thou 
dost  allow  some  of  the  students  free  ac- 
cess to  the  Holy  Scriptures.     Have  more 
of  a  care!     Only  with  explanations  of  the 
•priest  is  the  Bible  to  be  read  by  the  laity!" 
No  one  knew  that  in  Father  Lorenzo's 
chest  was  a  heretic  Bible,  a  gift  from  a 
•boyhood  friend   in  Mexico  City,  and  that 
(122) 


frieud  a  heretic.  Nor  did  any  one  know  how 
often,  alone  in  his  room,  the  little  book 
was  taken  out  and  read.  Father  Lorenzo 
was  learning  the  truth  about  his  Church — 
about  himself  and  his  duty. 


(  123  ) 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"Tnou  HAST  NOT  DENIED  My  NAME." 

One  night  there  was  a  tap  at  the  here- 
tic's study  door,  which  opened  into  the 
street.  He  was  surprised,  at  the  instant, 
as  he  saw,  standing  "before  him,  the  smooth- 
shaven  face  and  the  man  gowned  as  a 
priest.  By  his  side  stood  a  lad.  The  here- 
tic recognized  the  boy  singer  and  Father 
Lorenzo,  for  they  had  exchanged  saluta- 
tions upon  the  street. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me!''  said  the 
priest. 

"You  are  none  the  less  welcome! "  was 
lie  reply. 

"Let  me  state  my  errand  at  once,"  said  the 
priest  accepting  the  proffered  chair.  "For 
a  long  time  I  have  felt  that  I  am  living  a 
false  life.  I  have  been  posing  as  one  who 
is  able  to  forgive  sin,  when  in  reality  I 
know  none  but  God'  is  able  to  forgive  ain, 
and  none  more  needy  of  forgiveness  than 
I  myself.  My  boy  and  I,  for  he  knows 
somewhat  of  my  trouble,  have  come  to  you 
for  instruction." 

"Thank  God,  my  brother!"  exclaimed  the 
heretic,  grasping  by  the  hand,  his  visitor. 
(124) 


"We  are  all  sinners,  and  in  need  of  Divina 
forgiveness!" 

Long  time  and  earnestly  talked  the  two 
together,  the  boy  listening  the  while. 

Then  they  kneeled  together.  His  duty 
they  knew,  but  they  prayed  for  strength 
to  do  that  duty.  When  they  arose  from  their 
knees,  a  new  light  shone  upon  each  face. 

"Your  life  will  now  be  in  danger!''  said 
the  Protestant. 

"I  know,  but  death  even  is  preferable  tn 
the  misery  through  which  I  have  been  pass- 
ing these  last  few  weeks.  Yet  I  woute 
live  to  make  amends  and  to  warn  others!" 

"Come  to  us  if  there  is  danger!" 

"I  will,"  said  Father  Lorenzo,  gratefully, 
"But  in  any  case  I  beg  of  you,  take  charge 
of  my  boy.  I  love  him,  and  do  not  wish 
him  to  lead  such  a  life  as  mine.  I  will 
come  again  and  tell  you  my  plans." 

But  little  knew  Father  Lorenzo  that 
other  plans  had  been  laid  for  him.  That 
visit  to  the  heretic's  had  not  been  un- 
noticed!. 

Upon  entering  his  own  doorway,  he  was 
met  by  the  bishop.  Father  Lorenzo  saw, 
at  a  glance,  the  conflict  before  him. 
For  a  moment  he  felt  weak,  but  a  cry  from 
his  heart  to  God  brought  calm  and  courage. 

"Let  our  interview  be  in  private,  in  thine 
own  room!''  sternly  said  the  bishop. 
(125) 


"Where  hast  thou  spent  this  evening?" 

"In  the  house  of  the  Protestant  minis- 
ter." 

"And  what  didst  thou  there?" 

"Reverend  Father  and  Bishop,"  replied 
the  priest,  "long  time  I  have  known  that 
my  life  was  a  mockery.  Yet  I  knew  not 
how  to  leave,  and  I  feared  to  tell  thee.  I 
know  now  my  duty.  I  go  now  from  this 
place  and  henceforth  avow  myself  a  Prot- 
estant, an  heretic,  if  thou  pleaseth." 

The  bishop's  face  showed  surprise  and 
anger. 

"It  seems  thy  plans  are  well  laid!  But 
thou  dost  forget  my  permission.  Without 
it  thou  canst  not  leave!'' 

Then  stepping  to  the  door,  he  opened  it 
and  called  to  him  two  men  who  waited. 

"Here,  take  this  man  in  charge  and  con- 
duct him  to  my  residence!" 

"Do  not  touch  me!"  said  Father  Lorenzo 
in  a  quiet  tone.  "I  am  not  a  criminal.  I 
go  alone  as  a  man.  I  am  ready,"  he  added, 
turning  toward  the  bishop. 

But  at  that  instant  in  rushed  the  lad 
Frederico.  Clinging  to  the  priest  he  cried: 

"Oh,  what  is  it?    where  art  thou  to  go?" 

"Remove  this  boy!  He  is  to  remain 
here!"  spoke  the  bishop  sharply. 

But  before  the  lad  was  taken  away 
Father  Lorenzo  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Tell 

(126) 


Juan,  and  flee   thou   to  the  house  of  the 
heretics,  and  stay  there!'' 

The  streets  were  dimly  lighted,  and  sev- 
eral times  came  to  him  the  thought  to  at- 
tempt his  escape.  But  he  had  given  his 
word  and  scorned  to  break  it.  He  was 
locked  into  a  small  back  room  in  the 
bishop's  residence.  Frederico  had  sought 
the  faithful  Juan. 

"Yes,  go  at  once  to  the-  house  of  the 
Protestante.  Stay  there  till  I  go  for  thee. 
I  will  keep  near  to  our  padre,  and  if  thou 
dost  hear  strange  things  of  me,  do  not  be- 
lieve them.  I  will  save  him  if  I  can!" 

The  heretic  was  closing  for  the  night, 
when  he  heard  a  timid  knock,  and  there 
stood  the  lad,  weeping  out  his  sad  story. 

"Stay  within  this  house,"  said  the  good 
man.  "Do  not  go  upon  the  streets.  I  will 
do  all  I  can  to  save  our  dear  Father  Lo- 
renzo." 

"Why,  here  is  Juan,  servant  of  Father 
Lorenzo!  What  seekest  thou?  News  of 
thy  heretic  master?"  called  one,  as  early 
the  next  morning  Juan  stepped  into  the 
court  of  the  bishop's  residence. 

"Is  it  true  that  my  old  master  has  turned 
heretic?"  said  Juan  in  bantering  tone.  "I 
scarce  believe  it.  "Yet  if  it  is,  he  will  here 
find  just  reward  for  such  an  act!" 

"What  meanest  thou,  Juan?" 

(127) 


"I  mean  this:  it  is  a  shame  to  be  counted 
a  heretic,  but  for  a  priest — a  priest  like 
Father  Lorenzo — to  turn  heretic,  shame 
is  no  word.  It  is  a  disgrace  to  our  Holy 
Church,  and  the  traitor,  be  it  Father  Lo- 
renzo even,  must  suffer  just  consequences!" 

"Why,  listen.  I'thought  thou  wast  given 
over  soul  and  body  >to  the  service  of  thy 
master?  What  sort  of  talk  is  this?"  All 
day  Juan  stayed  about  the  place,  and  as 
they  told  him  of  Father  Lorenzo's  re- 
peated refusals  to  recant,  he  shook  hie 
head,  saying: 

"The  traitor;   let  him  suffer!'' 

All  day,  too,  Father  Lorenzo,  locked  in 
that  little  back  room,  had  tasted  no  food; 
but  upon  his  knees  his  soul  had  feasted 
upon  the  heavenly  manna,  and  though  sev- 
eral opportunities  had  been  given  to  re- 
nounce his  false  belief,  he  refused. 

That  night  the  door  again  opened.  The 
bishop,  with  two  padres,  stood  before  him. 

"This  is  thy  last  chance  to  repent  and 
forsake  this  foolish  course." 

"I  have  nothing  to  repent,  save  my  sins. 
They  are  already  forgiven,"  was  the  quiet 
reply. 

"Why  waste  further  worde  with  this 
stubborn  heretic?"  angrily  exclaimed  the 
bishop  to  his  companions.  "Let  us  test 
him  in  the  room  below." 

(128) 


Silently  they  passed  on  down  the  back 
corridor,  lighted  only  by  one  dim  hanging 
lamp.  There  was  no  escaping  now.  Father 
Lorenzo  knew  whither  he  was  being  led, 
for  he  had  heard  of  the  underground  dun- 
geon from  whence  none  had  ever  returned. 
Yet  he  felt  no  fear.  One  instant  he  started, 
for  he  thought,  as  a  figure  stepped  out 
from  a  shadow  down  in  the  corridor  that 
it  was  his  Juan.  But  the  figure  drew  into 
the  shadow  again. 

Through  a  narrow  'iron  door  they 
passed,  down  a  dark  stone  stairway,  and 
stood  a  moment  upon  the  ground  floor  to 
accustom  themselves  to  the  still  dimmer 
light.  Two  men  were  there  in  working 
garments.  As  in  a  dream,  the  old  prie&t 
Lorenzo  saw  the  gleam  of  metal,  and  heard 
the  clang  of  irons.  The  voices  of  the  men 
sounded  strangely  distant,  as  they  ap 
preached,  tore  from  him  his  outer  gar 
ments,  threw  him  to  the  ground  and  cm 
him  with  their  irons.  He  felt  them  cmnci 
and  tighten  about  him,  and  heard  the  or 
ders  given  in  quick,  short  words,  by  "holj 
priest  of  God,"  to  agonize,  to  torture  a  fel- 
low being,  because  he  dared  believe  what 
the  Holy  Church  of  God  called  "heresy."  No 
cry  he  made;  only  low  moans  escaped  those 
thin,  white  lips  which  refused  to  deny 
their  Maker. 

(129) 


Oh,  Church  of  Rome!  Holy  Church  of 
Rome!  Thou  whited  sepulchre!  Thy  walls 
are  spattered  and  stained  with  the  blood 
of  many  martyrs!  Thou  who  liftest  thy 
head  eo  proud  and  high,  and  sayest  "there 
is  no  salvation  outside  my  walls,"  how 
will  be  thine  own  salvation?  And  what 
wilt  thou  say  for  thyself  in  that  last  great 
day,  that  day  of  justice,  when  the  great 
God  of  the  Ages  shall  call  thee  to  ac- 
count? What  wilt  thou  say  for  thyself? 

(Not  fewer  than  seventy  Protestant  Mex- 
icans have  been  put  to  death  in  that  coun- 
try by  the  Church  of  Rome.) 

Through  the  long,  dark  night  and  at 
early  morn,  there  lay  upon  the  cold  ground 
floor  a  body,  torn  and  mangled,  but  its 
heart  still  beating  acknowledgment  of  its 
Maker,  God;  its  soul  still  seeing  its  Sa- 
vior, Jesus  Christ. 

Serenely  walked  the  bishop  of  that  most 
holy  Church  up  and  down  his  corridor, 
saluting  and  talking  jovially  with  one  and 
another. 

"Yes,  it  was  true,"  he  said;  "the  reports 
were  true.  The  devil  had  carried  off 
Father  Lorenzo  that  night,  soul  and  body, 
and  such  would  be  like  fate  to  any  others 
who  might  turn  heretic.  The  noise  as  of 
a  scuffle  in  that  room  had  been  heard  by 
several,  and  others  had  heard  the  rustling 

(  130  ) 


and  flapping  of  great  wings  as  they  passed 
through  the  barred  window  and  flew  off 
in  the  darkness.  The  room,  when  entered, 
was  found  empty.  So,  of  course,  it  was 
true.  A  terrible  warning  thus  to  all!" 

At  first  light  of  day  a  servant  had  been 
dispatched,  in  secret,  to  the  room  below, 
to  report  to  the  bishop.  The  messenger 
objected  not  to  one  who  suddenly  joined 
him  in  the  dark  corridor  and  walked  along 
by  his  side.  Without  a  word  the  two  de- 
scended and  leaned  over  the  prostrate 
form. 

"He  still  lives,"  said  the  servant. 

"Leave  me  here,"  said  the  other.  "Tell 
no  word  on  me.  It  will  be  to  thy  ad- 
vantage." 

With  an  indifferent  •  shrug  the  man 
moved  en,  ascended  the  stairway  and 
locked  the  door  behind  him. 

Then  kneeled  Juan,  and  tenderly  raised 
the  martyr's  head  within  his  arms. 

"My  master,  my  master!  what  have  they 
done  to  thee?"  he  cried.  Warm  tears  fell 
upon  the  upturned  face.  The  white  lips 
moved  and  whispered,  "Juan,  Juan,  eres 
tu?"  (Is  it  thou?) 

After  some  hours  the  same  servant  re- 
turned. 

"Bring  me  water — quick — oil  and  wine. 
Let  no  one  come  here  for  a  day  of  two; 

(131) 


story,  all  about,  though  the  press  refused 
him  room,  for  they  feared  to  print  aught 
against  their  priests. 

The  eyes  of  many  were  opened  for  the 
first  time  to  the  cruelty  and  deceptions  of 
the  "Holy  Church  of  Rome." 

Some  said  the  earthquake  was  God's  vis- 
itation in  anger  for  the  cruel  deed.  Others 
said  the  earthquake  was  a  blow  against 
the  heretics,  though  it  was  well  known 
that  the  heretics'  premises  had  not  been 
damaged. 

The  lad  Frederico  clung  more  closely 
than  ever  to  his  new-found  protectors. 
They,  realizing  his  danger,  kept  him  close- 
ly sheltered.  He  did  not  go  upon  the 
street.  His  grief  found  vent  through  his 
music. 

By  the  hours  sat  the  boy  at  the  organ, 
his  fingers  drawing  sweet  melody  from 
the  keys,  and  his  voice,  wonderfully  ten- 
der and  pathetic  now,  floated  out  through 
the  windows,  till  passersby  stopped  to 
listen  and  to  say: 

"Strange  things  are  happening  In  our 
city!  A  priest  is  murdered  because  he 
turns  heretic,  and  now  here  is  that  'voice 
of  an  angel'  singing  heretic  songs.  What 
are  we  coming  to,  Jesus  Maria?" 


(134) 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TWO  MOTHEES. 

One  day  there  came  a  visitor  to  the  Prot- 
estant's house,  a  woman  whose  hair  was 
white  and  whose  face,  though  young  and 
beautiful,  was  strangely  sad. 

"Is  this  where  the  heretic  lives?"  she  in- 
quired. "Some  months  ago  he  left  at  our 
hacienda  some  papers  and  this  'New  Testa- 
ment,' he  called  it.  I  have  been  reading 
them,  till  they  have  brought  comfort  to 
my  sad  heart.  But  I  would  know  more.  I 
would  talk  with  the  heretic!" 

And  as  they  talked  together,  the  songs 
and  wonderful  voice  of  the  lad  at  the  organ 
floated  into  the  room.  The  woman  ceased 
her  talking,  hearing  only  the  singing.  A 
strange  look  had  come  over  her  face. 

"We  will  go  into  that  room  and  listen," 
said  the  missionary,  stepping  to  open  the 
d'oor.  But  the  woman  was  there  before 
him.  She  opened  the  door  herself,  stood  a 
moment  looking,  listening. 

Frederfco  turned  his  face.  With  a 
scream  she  fell  toward  him,  crying,  "My 
boy!  oh,  my  "boy!" 

(135) 


P'ar  inito  the  night  they  talked,  listening 
and  telling  each  to  the  other  of  the  strange 
things  that  had  befallen. 

"Let  us  kneel  together  and  thank  God 
above  for  his  love  and  kindness  toward 
us/'  siaid  the  heretic.  "And  now,"  he 
added,  turning  toward  the  happy  Dona 
Alicia,  "stay  with  us  for  a  few  days,  and 
then  let  me  accompany  you  both  to  El 
Paso,  where,  for  a  few  years,  you  both 
may  live;  your  son  to  escape  danger  here, 
and  fit  himself  for  a  life  of  usefulness,  and 
you  to  make  for  him  a  home. 

The  heretic  missionary  made  frequent 
trips  to  the  miming  villages,  driving  in  his 
little  cart  alone,  over  the  rough  mountain 
roads.  Holding  services  in  these  places 
and  leaving  tracts  and  Bibles,  his  journey- 
ings,  though  gladly  done,  were  wearisome. 
At  such  home  returnings,  nothing  rested 
the  tired  man  better  than  to  take  into 
his  arms  his  own  little  laughing  baby  girl 
First  a  merry  tussle,  soft  little  baby  hands 
tugging  with  might  and  main  at  papa's 
hair,  laughing  and  calling  the  while;  then 
a  velvety  cheek  against  his  own,  two  little 
arms  creeping  about  his  neck;  then  a  little 
stillness,  for  baby  is  tired,  and  soon  a  little 
head  is  resting  upon  his  breast.  The  big. 
brown  head  above  begins  to  droop,  and 
papa's  cheek  is  resting  now  against  the 
(136) 


little  head,  breathing  in  the  fragrance  of 
the  silky  hair.  The  two  fluttering  little 
fists  are  quiet  now,  held  tight  in  one  warm 
grasp;  and  mother,  coming  in  just  then, 
finds  them  both  asleep,  the  father  and  his 
baby  girl  together. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  there  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  a  little  whita 
coffin,  and  in  that  coffin  lay  his  baby  girl, 
white  and  still  as  the  pure  white  blos- 
soms covering  the  little  casket. 

The  mother  kneeled,  crushed  with  a  new 
great  grief. 

"Why,  oh  Shepherd  above,  didst  thou 
give  this  wee,  white  lamib,  if  only  to  take 
her  from  us  again?  Only  one  we  had 
There  are  other  folds  where  thou  mightest 
have  taken,  and  they  would  not  have  been 
missed.  There  are  other  wee  lambs  who 
have  no  homes,  who  are  cold  and  hungry; 
why  didst  thou  not  send  and  gather  there? 
Why,  oh  why,  didst  thou  take  from  us  our 
only  one,  and  she  so  safe  and  warm  and 
well  protected?" 

Then  in  the  soul  was  whispered; 

"Daughter,  be  quiet!  'Why?'  Thou  wilt 
know — not  now — on,ly  wait!  Thy  babe  so 
safety  sheltered  in  her  heavenly  fold,  thou 
wo'uldlst  not  call  back  again  to  pain  and 
sin.  And  where  thy  treasure  is,  there  will 
thy  heart  be  also!" 

(137) 


But  when  they  came  to  lay  the  little 
one  away  for  her  long  rest,  then  mother 
grief  broke  out  afresh. 

"My  bahy,  to  be  left  alone — alone,  and 
she  so  little — in  the  cold,  dark  ground! 
Oh!  she  will  waken  and  cry,  because  she 
is  alone  and  cold!  Cruel  are  ye  to  take 
her  from  me  and  cruel  is  God!" 

Again,  in  her  soul,  was  whispered: 

"Be  quiet.  If  thou  oanst  trust  with  me 
th'at  little  spirit,  canst  thou  not  trust  with 
me  its  mortal  frame?  I  gave  them  both 
and  take  and  keep  them  both!" 

"Oh,  father,"  sobbed  the  mother,  "I 
know  I  am  to  have  my  babe  again;  but  tell 
me,  will  she  be  my  baby  still,  or  will  she 
be  so  grown  and  changed  I  will  not  know 
my  own!" 

"Daughter,  he  who  is  able  to  keep  for 
thee  thy  little  one  is  able  so  to  present 
her  to  thee  again  that  thou  will  be  fully 
satisfied.  Trust!  Cease  thy  mourning! 
Thine  is  not  the  only  grief  on  earth. 
Arise,  and  carry  comfort  to  other  sorrow- 
ing mothers;  for,  until  now,  thou  hast 
not  known  to  comfort  others." 


(  138  ) 


CHAPTER    IX. 
MARIANA. 

The  little  groiup  that  was  winding 
around  the  foothills  at  the  same  time  that 
AureMo  and  his  mother  were  steaming  out 
of  the  bay  and  into  the  Gulf  of  California, 
was  now  approaching  a  mountain  mining 
camp. 

"Alight  here  and  await  my  return,"  said 
the  man. 

The  pony  began  to  graze,  the  hungry  dog 
threw  himself  in  weakness  upon  the 
ground,  while  the  woman  quieted  the  girl 
with  promising  that  to-morrow  they  were 
surely  going  to  the  city.  In  about  half 
an  hour  the  man  returned,  saying  that 
the  rescue  party  was  scattered  all  over  that 
region. 

"I  await  thee  here  while  thou  takest 
the  child  up  toward  the  nearest  house. 
Leave  her  there.  Thou  and  I  must  es- 
cape! " 

Just  as  Mariana  was  left  alone  In  the 
pathway  leading  to  the  house,  the  door 
opened  and  a  woman  came  out.  Instinc- 
(139) 


tively  the  girl  ran  up  toward  her,  and  see- 
ing that  the  face  was  kind,  burst  out: 

"Oh,  take  me  to  my  mother;  my  father 
will  pay  thee — he  is  rich — oh,  take  me,  for 
they  stole  me!'' 

"Why,  what  is  this?"  said  the  woman 
kindly.  "This  must  be  the  little  daughter 
of  Peralta.  Searches  were  made  here  this 
very  day!  But,  Virgin  Santisima — those 
eyes' — just  like  my  Ros'aria's,  now  in  her 
grave  these  six  months!  But  thy  hair; 
what  have  they  done  to  thee?" 

"They  cut  it  off — my  mamma;  oh,  my 
mamma — take  me  to  her!" 

"Yes,  querida,  but  come  in  first,"  and 
taMng  the  little  frightened,  sobbing  child 
kindly  by  the  hand,  she  led  her  within: 
and  two  hours  later,  washed,  fed  and  clad 
in  Rosaria's  garments,  fast  asleep  in 
Dona  Refugia's  sheltering  arms,  she  looked 
another  girl. 

"Just  look  here!"  exclaimed  the  woman 
to  her  husband,  entering  the  door.  "Just 
come  and  look  at  this  child!  The  very 
image  of  our  Rosaria,  she  is.  Poor  little 
thing!  She  is  the  stolen  child  of  Peralta. 
We  must  return  her  to  anxious  parents, 
but  I  would  love  to  keep  her,  for  she  could 
be  to  'me  in  Rosaria's  place!"  And,  wiping 
off  a  falling  tear,  she  drew  the  sleeping 
child  close  to  her. 

(140) 


"She  is,  in  truth,  very  like  our  Roaaria," 
replied  her  husband;  '"but  I  'have  come 
with  a  message  for  thee.  Pedro  has  come 
from  the  ranch  with  news  of  thy  father's 
deaith.  Thy  mother  is  alone  and  sick,  and 
summons  thee.  We  must  go  by  morn  to- 
morrow, if  possible." 

Dona  Refugia's  sorrow  because  of  her 
father's  death  made  her  even  more  tender 
toward  the  child.  "What  shall  we  do  with 
her?"  asked  the  woman  of  her  husband. 
"Shall  we  leave  her  here  till  word  may  be 
carried  to  her  parents,  or  shall  we  take 
her  with  us,  and  find  a  way  ourselves  to 
send  her  home?  What  wiHt  thou,  little 
one;  wilt  thou  stay  with  us  till  we  may 
take  thee  to  thy  mother?" 

Mariana  gladly  preferred  to  stay  by  her 
new-found  protector. 

"See  that  word  is  sent  to  Don  Feral ta 
about  his  child,"  she  said  to  several  neigh- 
bors who  had  come  next  morning  to  bid 
farewell.  "Tell  him  to  send  to  'El  Rancho 
del  Agua  Fresca'  for  his  daughter/' 

But  there  were  no  telephones  or  tele- 
graphs in  that  mining  camp — only  a  week- 
ly i®ta.ge,  aind  somehow  no  message  was 
sent  to  Don  Fernando  Peralta. 

Dona  Refugia's  stay  at  'El  Rancho  del 
Agua  Fresca'  was  prolonged.  Her  mother's 
death  and  the  passing  into  her  hands  of 
(  141  ) 


the  ranch  property  made  it  their  future 
home.  And  the  weeks  and  the  months 
went  by,  but  no  father  came  for  his  little 
girl.  Some  tame  they  would  carry  little 
Mariana  themselves,  but  it  -would  (be  a 
trip,  by  horse,  of  several  days,  and  the 
journey  was  postponed  from  time  to  time. 

Then  came  the  news  of  the  terrible 
scourge,  the  "yellow  fever,"  and  among 
those  who  had  died  was  the  family  of 
Seaor  Peralta.  Dona  Refugia  was,  secret- 
ly, not  much  grieved  over  the  news,  for 
now  she  could  give  to  Mariana  her  own 
name.  The  grief  of  children  can  not  al- 
ways stay;  and,  though  Mariana  wept,  she 
in  time  forgot  and  grew  happy  and  con- 
tented with  her  foster  parents.  But  she 
loved  to  tell  about  her  beautiful  "first 
mamma";  her  little  brother  who  could  sing 
like  a  bird,  and  about  Aurelio,  so  strong 
and  tall  and  straight,  who  had  protected 
her,  and  who  had  given  to  her  the  delicate 
chain  she  wore  about  her  neck.  She  had 
found  the  moment  to  snatch  it  from  under 
the  rock  before  she  was  taken  away,  and 
never  since  that  day  would  she  allow  it  to 
leave  her. 

"Aurelio  gave  it  to  me.  He  told  me  to 
keep  it  till  he  could  come  for  it.  I  will 
keep  it  till  he  comes,  for  some  day  I  shall 
see  him  again.  My  Aurelio,  so  brave  and 

(142  ) 


kind!  I  love  him;  he  was  my  big 
brother!5' 

Mariana  Gavlna  (for  this  was  her  name 
now)  grew  fast  in  her  out-of-door  life,  her 
head  covered  again  with  glossy  ringlets, 
and  she  was  happy.  There  were  children 
belonging  to  the  peons  of  the  ranch,  with 
whom  she  played.  There  was  no  school, 
but  Dona  Refugia  herself  continued  her 
lessons  in  reading  and  writing,  which  ha1 
been  begun  before  she  was  stolen  from  her 
parents.  Of  one  little  baby  in  particular 
was  Mariana  very  fond,  and  nothing 
pleased  her  better  than  to  care  for  her 
while  the  mother  was  at  her  work. 

But  one  day  baby  was  very  ill.  "She 
will  die!"  cried  the  agonized  mother,  "but 
she  has  never  been  baptized,  so  will  be 
lost!  What  shall  I  do?  There  is  no  padr? 
here  to  baptize  my  babe!" 

"Bring  the  child  to  me,"  said  Dona  Re- 
fugia. "I  can  baptize  it.  It  will  be  just 
as  valid,  if  the  right  words  are  said,  an-1 
said  in  the  right  order." 

So  the  babe  and  water  were  brought. 
Dona  Refugia  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
on  the  forehead  of  the  little  one,  repeated 
the  formula,  and  the  child  was  baptized, 
and  lived,  for  from  that  moment  she  grew 
better,  all  said. 

(  143  ) 


CHAPTER  X. 
THE  BISHOP  AND  His  POWER. 

The  Reverend  Bishop  Rico  was  expected 
at  the  ranch  on  his  occasional  tour  among 
the  country  folk.  Mariana,  now  twelve 
years  old,  was  to  receive,  with  several 
other  children,  the  rite  of  confirmation. 
White  dresses  had  been  made  whose  beau- 
tiful trimmings  of  hand"  embroideries  and 
drawn  work  had  occupied  many  months. 
The  materials,  the  white  ribbons  and  the 
veils  which  the  girls  were  to  wear,  were 
brought  from  the  nearest  town.  The  great 
and  long-loolted-for  day  at  last  arrived.  A 
forerunner,  on  horse,  brought  the  tidings 
of  the  near  approach  of  the  bishop.  The 
residents  of  the  ranch  gathered,  while  half 
a  dozen  of  the  young  men  ran  on  to  meet 
the  coach,  and  removing  the  horses,  they 
themselves  drew  the  great  man  in  his  car- 
riage into  the  yard,  all  the  people  falling 
on  their  knees. 

Mariana  was  awed,  as  she  saw  the  "holy 
man"  step  down  upon  the  robes  cast  be- 
fore his  feet.  His  velvet  gown  and  mitre 

(144) 


were  stiff  with  gold  embroideries  and 
sparkling  with  precious  stones.  He  gra- 
ciously extended  his  finger  tips  for  each 
to  kiss,  after  which  they  arose  and  fol- 
lowed into  Dona  Refugia's  private  room, 
which  Bad  been  fitted  up  with  altar,  images 
and  appropriate  belongings.  The  (cus- 
todia)  box,  in  which  is  carried  the  host, 
was  also  richly  decorated  with  gold  and 
silver  and  jewels,  and  was  carefully  borne 
by  an  attendant. 

At  one  side  of  the  room  kneeled  those 
who  were  to  be  confirmed,  for  they  must 
first  make  free  and  full  confession  to  the 
bishop  of  their  sins.  Mariana,  in  her 
fright,  could  remember  but  few  misdeeds. 
The  man,  by  way  of  reminders,  questioned 
her  as  to  probable  faults  in  deed,  word  or 
thought,  to  all  of  which  sh'e  stammered 
replies. 

As  they  kneeled  again  before  the  altar, 
and  in  front  of  the  bishop,  he  extended 
first  his  hands  above  them,  then  made 
upon  their  foreheads  the  sign  of  the  cross 
with  the  chrism  (the  most  holy  of  the 
three  sacred  oils  which  are  blessed  by  the 
bishop  every  Maundy  Thursday),  and  sol- 
emnly pronounced  the  words: 

"I  sign  thee  with  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
and  I  confirm  thee  with  the  chrism  of  eal- 

(145) 
10 


vation,  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of 
the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Spirit!" 

Then  he  gave  a  slight  blow  upon  the 
cheek  of  each,  to  remind  them  that  they 
must  expect  to  meet  hardships. 

After  a  rest,  and  the  dinner  which  had 
been  prepared  for  him,  Bishop  Rico  had 
other  duties  demanding  his  attention. 

One  of  the  peons  had  lately  been  buried, 
and  his  wife  was  in  great  distress  lest 
his  soul  was  still  in  purgatory.  He  had 
worn  the  scapular  all  his  life.  The  scapu- 
lar is  a  bit  of  cloth,  stamped  with  the  Vir- 
gin's image,  and  is  worn  upon  the  breast 
under  the  garments.  To  those  who  wear 
these  all  their  lives  the  Holy  Mother  has 
promised  to  "come  down  to  purgatory  the 
Saturday  after  their  death,  and  lift  them 
to  the  mountains  of  Glory."  He  had  also 
left  money  to  pay  for  masses  for  his  soul, 
but  the  distressed  widow  feared  that  it 
had  not  been  enough. 

"Let  the  woman  be  brought!''  said  the 
Reverend  Bishop  Rico,  after  listening  to 
a  statement  of  the  case.  Leading  by  the 
hand  her  little  boy,  she  kneeled  before 
him. 

"Hast  thou  wherewith  to  pay  for  the 
masses  for  the  soul  of  thy  husband?" 
asked  the  man. 

(146) 


"Yes,  Reverend  Father  Obispo.  Antonio, 
my  husband,  left  two  dollars  with  me,  all 
he  had — for  we  are  poor,  Senor!" 

"Well,"  replied  the  man,  "this  is  a  very 
low  sum.  Thou  dost  know,  where  there  is 
high  money,  there  is  high  mass;  low 
money,  low  mass;  no  money,  no  mass." 

The  woman  sighed.  The  bishop  looked 
indifferently  in  the  other  direction. 

"Well!"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "thou 
hast  no  money;  masses  will  be  impossible 
without  money.  But  there  is  yet  a  way. 
Thou  hast  friends.  Hast  thou  some  article 
in  thine  house  that  can  be  raffled  among 
thy  friends?  This  may  take  the  place  of 
money." 

The  woman  thought.  She  had  nothing 
of  value  in  her  house!  Yes!  there  was 
that  table  cover  which  she  had  been  em- 
broidering. She  had  been  working  on  it 
for  months,  and  was  intending,  with  the 
sale  of  it,  to  get  for  herself  and  children 
something  to  wear,  for  It  would  be  worth 
ten  dollars  at  least.  But  she  would  be 
glad  to  forego  those  garments  if  thus  she 
might  secure  the  release  of  her  husband's 
soul  in  purgatory! 

"It  is  not  my  concern,"  said  the  rever- 
end coldly.  "It  concerns  only  thee  and 
the  soul  of  thy  husband!" 

(147) 


"Oh,  yes,  Father!  I  have  something!" 
exclaimed  the  widow. 

The  people  gathered.  The  Reverend 
Bishop  himself  conducted  the  raffle.  Each 
paid  for  a  draw,  but  it  was  Diego  Mar- 
tinez who  received  the  table  cover  for  his 
wife,  one  hundred  and  sixty  days  of  in- 
dulgence for  himself,  and  release  from  pur- 
gatory the  soul  of  his  friend  Antonio. 

But  there  was  yet  a  marriage  ceremony, 
confessions  to  hear,  penances  to  impose, 
offerings  to  receive,  and  the  widow's  babv 
•to  be  baptized.  But,  as  she  was  absolutely 
penniless  now  Dona  Refugia  paid  the  dol- 
lar fee. 

The  sun  was  lowering  in  the  west  be- 
fore the  bishop  and  his  attendants  were 
able  to  continue  on  their  journey.  They 
were  to  be  in  a  neighboring  hacienda  for 
a  special  night  function. 

"It  was  not  such  a  bad  thing,  after  all, 
this  side  trip,  was  it,  Senor  Obispo?''  said 
his  attendant  in  familiar  tone,  as  they 
rolled  along. 

"Not  so  bad!"  murmured  the  bishop,  as 
he  laid  his  hand  on  the  money  bag,  lan- 
guidly closed  his  eyes  and  leaned  against 
the  cushioned  back. 


(148) 


CHAPTER  XI. 
Ai/nzo  TOWN  AND  ITS  MAYOR. 

Several  days'  journey  by  horse  from  El 
Rancho  del  Agua  Fresca,  there  stretched 
a  beautiful  green  valley.  Following  the 
clear  stream  of  water,  which  spread  itself 
in  this  valley,  one  had  need  to  make  a 
gradual  climb,  till  the  valley  narrowed  to  a 
canyon,  and  up  against  one  of  its  sloping 
sides  stood  a  town,  built  tier  upon  tier. 
Borings  in  the  mountain  side,  and  miners' 
huts  and  paraphernalia,  revealed  the  metals 
hidden  there;  while  the  stream  below  and 
fields  of  maize  and  sugar  cane  and  melon 
patches  showed  industries  of  other  kinds. 
A  thrifty  little  town  this  was,  the  town  of 
Altiza,  busy  and  prosperous  its  people,  and 
safe  to  live  among.  But  perhaps,  this  was 
mostly  due  to  Don  Ramon,  the  Alcalde,  or 
town  mayor. 

Nothing  of  lawlessness  would  he  allow. 
The  quarrelsome  kept  out  of  reach  of  those 
strong  arms,  and  flinched  before  the  gaze 
of  those  piercing  black  eyes.  The  Insolent 
were  silenced  by  words  that  fell  like  blows. 
And  yet  the  poor  feared  not  to  come  to 
him  for  justice  or  for  money,  while  chil- 

(149) 


dren  ran  across  the  street  to  meet  the 
jolly  Don  Ramon. 

The  young  men  respectfully  saluted  and 
sought  calling  acquaintance  at  his  house, 
because  of  Constancia,  his  beautiful  sev- 
enteen-year-old daughter. 

Constancia  and  her  father  were  all  In 
all  to  each  other;  indeed,  the  girl  could 
scarce  recall  her  mother,  or  her  death. 
Aunt  Eulalia  might  order  his  house  for 
him,  but  Constancia  must  sit  by  his  side 
at  the  table,  meet  him  at  the  door,  an.l 
give  to  him  her  farewell  kiss  and  blessing. 

"Admirers  may  sit  about  the  sala  and 
look  with  languishing  eyes  upon  my  daugh- 
ter; I  claim  none  of  such  mute  appeals. 
But  when  (they  speak  I  too  must  hear 
Their  words  must  be  for  both  of  us.  Es 
verad,  hijita?"  would  say  the  father,  a 
merry  twinkle  in  those  keen  eyes. 

"But  dost  thou  never  expect  the  girl  to 
find  a  husband?"  would  ask  Aunt  Eulalia 

"Certainly,  sister  mine!  When  he  comes 
who  is  strong  enough  and  brave  enough  to 
take  and  keep  her." 

So  came  the  wooers,  one  by  one,  and 
went  again,  wondering,  each  in  turn,  what 
deed  of  valor  he  must  do  to  show  himself 
"strong  enough  and  brave  enough/' 

Aunt  Eulalia  fondly  loved  her  brother 

(150) 


and  his  lovely  Constancia.  For  this  rea- 
son she  often  chided. 

"How  can't  thou,  brother,  thus  endanger 
the  soul  of  thy  daughter?  Thou  dost  not 
allow  her  to  attend  mass,  nor  go  to  con- 
fession. How  can  she  be  saved?  Her  soul 
will  be  forever  cast  out!" 

"My  daughter  confess  to  a  man — and  to 
a  man  who,  though  pretending  to  live  a 
holy  life,  in  reality  lives  a  life  of  open 
shamelessness!  I  allow  no  priest  to  come 
between  me  and  my  daughter,  as  did  priest 
between  her  mother  and  myself.  Her  con- 
fession® shall  be  made  to  God  and  not  to 
man!" 

"Ah,  now  I  know  thou  art  an  heretic, 
for  thus  do  they  blaspheme  our  holy  priest- 
hood!"  said  his  sister  sorrowfully. 

"Whether  heretic  or  not,  I  do  not  care! 
This  I  do  know,  nothing  of  priest  for  my 
daughter  or  for  me.  Our  God  cares  not 
for  vain  words  counted  upon  each  bead,  or 
whispered  into  the  ears  of  saint  or  vir- 
gin!" 

"La  Virgin  Santisima  forgive  thee,  If 
possible!  I  fear  thy  soul  is  already  lost!" 

The  only  reply  would  be  a  shrug  of  those 
broad  shoulders,  and  a  merry  burst  of 
laughter,  always  especially  irritating  to 
poor  Aunt  Eulalia. 

( 151  ) 


the  mayor  had  his  enemies,  the  Cura 
— Father  Jacinto. 

"Thou  keep  order  in  thy  church,  and  I 
will  keep  order  in  my  town!"  Don  Ramon 
had  dared  to  say,  for  the  priests  in  Mex- 
ico expect  to  control  in  affairs  both  re- 
ligious and  civil. 

The  mayor's  open  defiance  had  angered 
the  cura.  Don  Ramon  was  too  strong  and 
too  popular  a  man  for  the  priest  to  chas- 
tise, so  he  quietly  and  shrewdly  awaited 
opportunities.  Yet  he  was  not  blind  to  the 
growing  popularity  of  the  town  mayor  and 
his  own  decline. 

Don  Ramon  was  also  a  good  story  teller 
Scarce  a  day  passed  that  a  crowd  could  not 
be  found,  gathered  in  some  public  place, 
laughing  at  some  tale  of  the  mayor's, 
often  at  the  expense  of  the  cura  or  of  his 
church. 

"Now,  I  am  not  an  heretic,"  Don  Ramon 
would  declare,  "nor  do  I  wish  my  town 
to  be  called  a  heretic  town;  but  we  do 
protest  against  the  absurdities  taught  and 
imposed  by  our  cura!  For  example:  these 
devotas  (devout  women)  who  are  about 
our  streets  now  soliciting  funds  with  which 
to  buy  an  embroidered  skirt  for  the  Holy 
Virgin.  Now,  what  does  the  Queen  of 
Heaven,  the  'Mother  of  God,'  need  of  a 

( 152  ) 


petticoat,  unless  it  be  to  present  it  to  ouf- 
oura! 

"We  protest  also  against  their  lives  of 
shameless  immorality,  for  all  know  who 
in  reality  are  the  women  they  keep  in 
their  homes  under  names  of  sister,  aunt, 
cousin  or  niece! 

"And  then  this  falsehood  about  purga- 
tory! Why,  men!  Ye  know  that  the 
priests  get  out  of  us,  poor  ignoramuses  in 
Mexico,  a  great  big  pile  of  money,  through 
purgatory,  and  this  doctrine  was  not  in- 
vented till  by  Pope  Gregory,  in  the  year 
fourteen  hundred.  Ye  have  heard  me  tell 
of  young  Rafael  Gomez.  Well,  it  seemed 
that  after  the  death  of  his  father,  a  few 
years  ago,  he  had  to  pay  repeated  sums  of 
money  to  get  his  father'©  soul  from  pur- 
gatory. The  lad  began  to  think,  after  a 
while,  that  his  father  was  a  good  while 
getting  out,  so  he  asked  the  priest  how 
much  longer  the  job  was  going  to  be. 

"  'Well,'  was  the  reply,  'your  father  is 
very  nearly  out  now — all  but  his  legs!' 

"'Oh,  well!'  said  the  son,  'I  know  my 
father  pretty  well,  and  if  he  is  that  near 
out  he  can  get  out  by  himself  mow!' 

"It  was  this  same  youngster  who  decided 
he  wanted  to  marry  his  cousin.  Now,  the 
fellow  did  very  wrong  to  wish  to  do  such 

(  153  ) 


a  tiling  (to  marry  his  cousin,  I  mean}, 
'because  that  is  a  great  sin  against  the 
Holy  Church.  But  the  Church,  seeing  its 
advantage  in  keeping  his  favor,  granted 
in  his  case  a  special  dispensation.  By  pay- 
ment of  two  thousand  dollars  the  wrong 
in  marrying  his  cousin  would  become  a 
right.  But  he  told  them  his  money  had  all 
been  sent  to  purgatory,  so  he  and  his 
cousin  went  across  our  northern  boundary 
for  the  ceremony,  where  they  now  live, 
selling  his  property  in  Mexico  to  prevent 
it  falling  into  the  care  of  the  Church. 

"Now,"  continued  Don  Ramon,  "we  are 
told  again  and  again  instances  of  how  bap- 
tism will  save  not  only  the  soul,  but  the 
body.  Indeed,  in  many  cases  where  breath 
has  almost  left  the  body  it  returns  again 
upon  the  rite  of  baptism.  I  was  told,  the 
other  day,  a  story  like  this : 

"A  certain  noted  robber  suddenly  ex- 
pressed alarm  for  his  soul.  He  asked  per- 
mission to  meet  the  cura  privately.  He, 
with  a  few  witnesses,  were  taken  to  the 
cura's  house.  The  priest  told  him  that 
baptism  was  the  first  essential.  Imme- 
diately then,  upon  the  baptism,  there  was 
a  sudden  commotion,  and  the  robber  fell 
to  the  floor;  'The  Devil  has  gone  out  of 


(154) 


him,  and  carried  off  his  sins!'  was  the  cry. 
'The  Devil  it  was,  sure,  for  they  know 
him  by  his  sulphur  smoke  and  fumes!' 
But,  alas!  enough  of  the  Devil  had  re- 
mained in  the  man  to  help  him  up  to  his 
feet  and  to  escape  through  the  back  door 
during  the  excitement.  And  some  of  the 
cura's  valuables  were  missing,  too,  from 
the  back  room. 

"We  all  know,  too,  the  advantage  of  sup- 
plications to  our  saints!  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  good  old  Juana  Remit?  She  was 
blessed  with  one  of  those  affectionate 
spouses,  the  kind  that  kick  and  beat  when 
dinner  is  a  little  late.  Well,  one  day  the 
charcoal  would  not  burn,  the  frijoles  and 
tortillas  were  not  in  time,  and  what  to  do, 
Juana  did  not  know.  Suddenly  a  thought 
hit  her,  and  knocked  her  down  under  the 
image  of  her  saint,  and  she  begged  of  him 
help  in  some  way.  Just  then  the  door 
opened,  and  in  walked  her  spouse.  The 
poor  woman  trembled  when,  to  her  amaze- 
ment, she  not  only  saw  the  tortillas  a  deli- 
cate brown,  and  the  frijoles  juicy  and  ten- 
der, but  the  cloth  was  also  spread,  and 
everything  ready.  The  man  declared  he 
never  had  tasted  better.  Well,  the  next 
day  the  thankful  Juana  laid  the  charcoal, 


(155) 


a  tiling  (to  marry  his  cousin,  I  mean?, 
'because  that  is  a  great  sin  against  the 
Holy  Church.  But  the  Church,  seeing  its 
advantage  in  keeping  his  favor,  granted 
in  his  case  a  special  dispensation.  By  pay- 
ment of  two  thousand  dollars  the  wrong 
in  marrying  his  cousin  would  become  a 
right.  But  he  told  them  his  money  had  all 
been  sent  to  purgatory,  so  he  and  his 
cousin  went  across  our  northern  boundary 
for  the  ceremony,  where  they  now  live, 
selling  his  property  in  Mexico  to  prevent 
it  falling  into  the  care  of  the  Church. 

"Now,"  continued  Don  Ramon,  "we  are 
told  again  and  again  instances  of  how  bap- 
tism will  save  not  only  the  soul,  but  the 
body.  Indeed,  in  many  cases  where  breath 
has  almost  left  the  body  it  returns  again 
upon  the  rite  of  baptism.  I  was  told,  the 
other  day,  a  story  like  this: 

"A  certain  noted  robber  suddenly  ex- 
pressed alarm  for  his  soul.  He  asked  per- 
mission to  meet  the  cura  privately.  He, 
with  a  few  witnesses,  were  taken  to  the 
cura's  house.  The  priest  told  him  that 
baptism  was  the  first  essential.  Imme- 
diately then,  upon  the  baptism,  there  was 
a  sudden  commotion,  and  the  robber  fell 
to  the  floor;  'The  Devil  has  gone  out  of 

(154) 


him,  and  carried  off  his  sins!'  was  the  cry. 
'The  Devil  it  was,  sure,  for  they  know 
him  by  his  sulphur  smoke  and  fumes!' 
But,  alas!  enough  of  the  Devil  had  re- 
mained in  the  man  to  help  him  up  to  his 
feet  and  to  escape  through  the  back  door 
during  the  excitement.  And  some  of  the 
cura's  valuables  were  missing,  too,  from 
the  back  room. 

"We  all  know,  too,  the  advantage  of  sup- 
plications to  our  saints!  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  good  old  Juana  Remit?  She  was 
blessed  with  one  of  those  affectionate 
spouses,  the  kind  that  kick  and  beat  when 
dinner  is  a  little  late.  Well,  one  day  the 
charcoal  would  not  burn,  the  frijoles  and 
tortillas  were  not  in  time,  and  what  to  do, 
Juana  did  not  know.  Suddenly  a  thought 
hit  her,  and  knocked  her  down  under  the 
image  of  her  saint,  and  she  begged  of  him 
help  in  some  way.  Just  then  the  door 
opened,  and  in  walked  her  spouse.  The 
poor  woman  trembled  when,  to  her  amaze- 
ment, she  not  only  saw  the  tortillas  a  deli- 
cate brown,  and  the  frijoles  juicy  and  ten- 
der, but  the  cloth  was  also  spread,  and 
everything  ready.  The  man  declared  he 
never  had  tasted  better.  Well,  the  next 
day  the  thankful  Juana  laid  the  charcoal, 


(155) 


put  the  frijoles  and  tortillas  in  their 
places,  and  asked  the  saint  to  again  do  the 
cooking. 

"The  man  came  in — but,  alas — the  poor 
woman  limped  for  several  days.  The  poor 
saint,  too,  had  lost  his  head.  A  new  one 
stands  in  his  place! 

"One  more  story,"  declared  Don  Ramon, 
"then  I  must  go.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  re- 
member how  proud  some  of  the  old  women 
were  of  bits  of  bone  which  they  hung 
about  their  necks.  'These  are  bits  of  the 
very  bones  of  St.  Peter,'  they  said,  'brought 
here  clear  from  Rome.  If  we  will  wear 
them  no  harm  will  ever  come  to  us!'  Peo- 
ple were  buying  them  and  wearing  them 
all  over  the  country,  till  I  used  to  wonder  if 
St.  Peter  had  a  bigger  supply  of  bones  than 
common  folks.  'Suddenly  it  was  found  out 
that  those  bones  had  come  from  the 
bleached  carcasses  of  horses  out  on  the 
mesa  near  by.  Then  people  stopped  buy- 
ing horses'  bones,  but  the  priests  had  al- 
ready made  quite  a  little  pile  of  money." 


(156) 


CHAPTER  XII. 
SAINT  FRANCISCO. 

It  was  nearing  the  time  for  the  yearly 
pilgrimages  to  the  great  Saint  Francisco,  in 
the  town  of  Magdalena. 

Aunt  Eulalia  would  make  one  more  ef- 
fort to  save  the  soul  of  her  darling  Con- 
stancia.  A  visit  to  this  holy  saint  would 
bring  the  maiden  to  her  senses. 

"Next  week  falls  the  yearly  feast  to  our 
great  iSaint  Francisco,"  said  Dona  Eulalia 
to  her  brother.  "Wilt  thou  accompany  thy 
daughter  and  myself  to  the  place?" 

"And  why  should  we  go  to  visit  that 
person,  my  sister?  He  has  been  dead  this 
long  time,  ha®  he  not?"  and  again  that 
merry  laugh  which  always  so  irritated  his 
sister,  and  never  more  than  just  then. 

But  she  controlled  herself,  for  she  was 
not  to  be  baffled. 

"Ramon,"  she  said  severely,  "thou  dost 
keep  thy  daughter  a  perfect  prisoner.  She 
knows  nothing  outside  her  father's  house 
and  this  town.  Dost  thou  wish  her  to  grow 
up  so  completely  ignorant?" 

No  words  could  better  have  touched  her 
brother.  Whatever  was  to  Constanoia's 
advantage  must  be  accomplished. 

(157) 


"Yes,  yes,"  was  the  reply.  "Certainly, 
we  will  go!" 

But  when  the  day  for  the  departure  ar- 
rived there  was  some  trouble  in  the  town, 
and  the  mayor  could  not  leave;  but  his 
daughter  and  sister  must  not  be  disap- 
pointed. 

It  was  quite  a  sight,  the  starting,  for 
Don  Ramon  owned  the  only  carriage  in 
town;  and  many  watched,  as  far  as  they 
could  see,  the  carriage  with  its  escort  on 
horse,  of  Constancia's  admirers,  as  It 
wound  down  the  hillside  out  into  the  val- 
ley and  plain,  mingling  in  with  many  other 
processions. 

"Saint  Francisco  is  the  great  image 
which  was  let  down  from  heaven,"  ex- 
plained Aunt  Eulalia  as  they  journeyed. 
"He  was  lifted,  by  men,  to  be  carried  to 
the  city,  but  he  suddenly  became  so  heavy 
that  they  were  obliged  to  drop  him,  and 
no  number  of  men  could  lift  him  again. 
By  this  sign  they  knew  that  the  saint 
wished  to  remain  on  that  spot.  Hence,  the 
church  was  built  about  him,  and  the  town 
has  grown  into  existence.  Every  year  mul- 
titudes flock  thither  to  be  cured,  to  be  for- 
given, or  to  receive  some  blessing." 

"What  is  he  made  of,  Aunt?''  inquired 
the  girl. 

"Of  wood." 

( 158  ) 


"How  can  a  piece  of  wood  cure  disease 
or  grant  petitions?"  asked  the  incredulous 
child. 

"I  can  not  explain  to  thee,  child,  but  it 
must  be  true,  for  the  priests  so  tell  us." 

It  was  night  when  the  caravan  entered 
the  town,  and  Constancia  and  her  aunt 
were  carried  to  the  meson  (inn). 

The  next  day  brought  many  new  sights 
to  the  young  girl,  among  them  the  shriek- 
ing, puffing  steam  engine,  that  iron 
monster,  which  the  men  of  the  Northland 
had  made,  to  carry  them  and  their  burdens 
back  and  forth  into  Mexico. 

But  they  must  fall  into  line  with  the 
crowds  seeking  the  church  of  Saint  Fran- 
cisco. They  passed  some  who  were  ©low- 
ly and  painfully  making  their  way,  crawl- 
ing on  bleeding  and  torn  hands  and  knees, 
or  rolling  their  bodies  over  and  over,  every 
little  distance. 

"These  are  poor  penitentes,"  explained 
Aunt  Eulalia,  "doing  penance  for  sins, 
which  the  saints  will  forgive!" 

In  the  doorway  of  the  church,  upon 
a  low  table,  lay  the  recumbent  wooden 
image  of  the  saint.  The  body  was  cov- 
ered with  a  richly-embroidered  velvet 
spread.  The  face  was  visible,  and  one  foot, 
the  big  toe,  quite  clean,  washed  by  many 
kisses  and  tears. 

(159) 


A  heavy  iron  chest,  with  slit  in  the  cover, 
received  the  offering®,  before  admittance 
could  be  gained  to  the  side  of  the  image. 
At  each  side  of  the  door  stood  a  priest 
selling  candles  which  had  been  blessed,  and 
which  the  purchaser  was  to  send  up  to  the 
altar  to  be  burned,  as  masses  were  being 
said.  Only  a  very  few  noticed  that  the 
same  candles  were  passed  in  to  the  altar 
and  out  again,  to  be  resold  for  twenty-five 
cents  apiece. 

"Dear  child,"  said  the  aunt  to  Con- 
stancia,  as  they  stood  in  the  throng  near 
to  the  image,  "forget  now  thy  father's 
blasphemous  teachings,  and  yield  thyself 
to  the  holy  influence  w<hich  already  I  feel 
stealing  over  me!  Wilt  thou  kneel  with 
me?" 

"I  await  thee  here,  Aunt,"  said  the  girl, 
withdrawing,  and  could  Aunt  Eulalia  have 
seen  the  raising  of  those  eyebrows  and 
the  merry  twinkle  in  those  bright  eyes, 
so  like  her  father's,  her  prayers  would 
have  been  distracted  with  conflicting 
thoughts. 

The  grounds  about  the  church  were  a 
babel  of  noises.  Vendors  shouting  their 
sweets  and  drinks,  a  merry-go-round, 
roulette,  and  other  games  of  chance  to 
draw  the  crowd.  The  girl's  lips  curled 
with  scorn  as  she  noted  the  worship  and 

(160) 


supplication  within,  barter  and  commerce 
without. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  voice  singing,  a 
man's  voice,  clear  and  sweet,  above  the 
din  of  the  crowd.  It  seemed  to  call  her, 
and  without  thought  she  started  toward  it. 

Under  a  tree,  in  one  corner  of  the  yard, 
was  a  table  covered  with  books  and  papers. 
Besides  the  table  stood  two  men.  One  with 
a  book,  the  Bible,  in  his  hand,  reading  and 
explaining  as  he  read,  while  ever  and  anon 
the  voice  of  the  singer  broke  out: 

"  There  is  something  better  than  this,  my 
friends, 

It  is  Jesus,  Jesus'  love; 
Come  to  him  now  and  listen  while  >he  calls, 
For  he  calls  thee  from  above." 

"There  are  the  heretics,"  she  heard  one 
say,  "from  the  city  below  us.  The  young 
one  is  the  'Angel  Voice/  whom  the  here- 
tics kidnaped  several  years  ago." 

It  was  Frederico,  now  having  completed 
his  studies,  and  he  and  his  mother  were 
back  again  with  the  missionary. 

Still  Constancia  drew  nearer,  and  stood 
and  listened,  while  the  voice  sang  on.  The 
song  had  touched  her  soul.  Or  was  it  the 
eyes  of  the  singer  which  had  found  her 
heart? 

The  song  was  ended,  and  the  crowd  be- 

(161) 
11 


gan  to  scatter.  Some  stopped  to  listen 
further  to  the  missionary,  or  to  accept  his 
leaflets.  Noticing  Constancia,  he  pleasant- 
ly drew  her  into  conversation,  learning 
her  name  and  home,  the  singer  meanwhile 
silently  standing  by  watching  the  beauti- 
ful face.  The  searching,  questioning  look 
of  those  big,  mournful  eyes  had  found  at 
last  their  answer  in  the  face  of  Con- 
stancia. 

Then  the  heretic  teacher  presented  these 
two  young  people,  each  to  the  other,  but 
while  they  talked  together,  Aunt  Eulalla 
hurriedly  came  up,  and  snatching  the  girl 
away  whispered  excitedly: 

"Child,  child!  What  hast  thou  done? 
These  are  those  accursed  heretics — oh, 
alma  mia,  what  hast  thou  done?'' 
*  But  to  the  aunt's  horror,  the  next  day 
Constancia  again  sought  the  heretics. 
All  through  the  day  she  stayed  where  she 
could  listen  to  the  singer,  could  hear  and 
talk  to  both. 

"Alas,  alas!  How  am  I  thwarted!" 
cried  poor  Aunt  Eulalia  to  herself.  "I 
bring  my  girl  here  to  be  drawn  back  into 
the  fold  of  her  holy  Church,  and  here  she 
is  drifting  farther  than  ever,  right  into  the 
arms  of  these  dreadful  heretics!'' 

That  night  brought  a  messenger  from 
Don  Ramon,  instead  of  the  man  himself, 

(162) 


saying  he  could  not  come,  and  that  they 
were  to  return  the  next  day,  early,  before 
Constancia  could  again  see  her  new-found 
friends,  the  heretics. 

Aunt  Eulalia  was  glad  in  her  heart  that 
the  girl  would  be  prevented  further  inter- 
course with  them.  And  Constancia  was 
glad  in  her  heart,  for  the  promise  they  had 
made  to  her  to  visit  iher  town,  if  her  father 
would  send  to  them  the  permission.  And 
she  carried,  hidden  in  her  belongings,  the 
New  Testament,  which  the  heretic  teacher 
had  sent  as  a  present  to  her  father. 

That  night,  as  Constancia  sat  by  her 
father's  side,  she  showed  him  the  little 
book  which  the  heretic  had  sent,  and  told 
him  the  story  which  the  heretic  told,  ancl 
gave  him  the  request  for  permission  to 
visit  the  town. 

"Yes,"  said  Don  Ramon,  "he  must  be  a 
good  man,  and  I  like  what  he  tells.  I  will 
write  him  to  come!" 

But  not  a  word  had  the  maiden  told  of 
the  songs  or  of  the  singer  that  had  found 
her  heart. 


(163) 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
STRONG  ENOUGH  AND  BRAVE  ENOUGH. 

In  due  time  they  came — the  heretic  mis- 
sionary, with  his  Bibles  and  his  papers, 
and  the  young  singer,  with  his  beautiful 
voice  and  songs. 

"Why  didst  thou  not  tell  me,  too,  of  the 
singer,  my  daughter?"  inquired  Don 
Ramon. 

But  the  maid,  dropping  her  eyes,  could 
not  reply.  Yet  there  was  something  about 
the  quiet,  slim  young  man  that  the  mayor 
liked.  He,  himself,  placed  at  their  disposal 
an  empty  hall  where  they  might  preach  and 
sing  the  gospel  story.  He,  too,  accom- 
panied by  his  daughter,  went  to  the  meet- 
ings and  invited  them  both,  the  preacher 
and  his  singer,  to  visit  them  in  his  home. 
Ah,  why  was  Don  Ramon  so  blind!  It  so 
happened  that  the  town  school  was  with- 
out a  teacher,  .he  having  been  summarily 
dismissed  a  few  days  before  by  the  mayor 
because  of  intemperate  habits.  It  was  de- 
cided that  Preclerico,  the  singer,  could  take 
the  school  until  the  close  of  the  year.  His 
mother  was  to  come  to  him  by  next  stage, 

(164) 


and  they  were  to  occupy  a  little  house  Don 
Ramon  selected  for  them  not  far  from  his 
own  home. 

Ah,  why  was  he  again  so  blind  and  so 
blundering! 

When  it  became  known  that  a  heretic 
was  in  charge  of  the  public  school,  many 
of  the  children  were  taken  out,  and  the 
cura  established  a  parochial  school.  But 
most  of  them  returned  one  by  one,  to  learn 
the  beautiful  songs  that  the  new  teacher 
taught;  songs  of  their  country,  their  own 
beloved  country;  the  songs  of  Jesus,  too, 
were  sweet,  though  the  mothers  wished 
there  were  some  to  the  blessed  Holy  Vir- 
gin. The  cura  found,  alas,  the  town  was 
growing  heretic,  spite  of  all  he  could  do. 

One  morning,  while  the  young  teacher 
was  occupied  with  classes,  the  priest  stood 
suddenly  in  the  door. 

The  children,  startled,  drew  together. 
Prederico  stepped  to  meet  him  and  bade 
him  enter. 

"Yes,  I  enter!"  was  the  reply,  "even  the 
abode  of  an  heretic,  that  I  may  warn  these 
dear  young  children.  These  innocents 
know  not  their  danger.  Their  parents  are 
the  guilty  ones.  Their  souls  are  already 
condemned!  But,  children,  I  do  not  my 
duty  if  I  warn  not  once  again!  Terrible 

(165) 


things  will  happen  if  ye  continue  to  receive 
instruction  from  this  heretic  teacher.  He 
teaches  contrary  to  the  doctrines  of  the 
Holy  Church,  and  she  says  that  no  one  can 
be  saved  outside  the  Church.  This  teach- 
er, then,  will  bs  lost,  and  ye,  too,  if  ye  con- 
tinue to  listen  to  him.  This  man  teaches, 
moreover,  from  the  Protestant  Bible,  which 
is  false.  This  is  not  the  true  Bible.  Let 
me  prove  it  to  ye.  For  example" — 

"Children,  what  is  the  first  command- 
ment?" 

"  'Thou  shalt  have  no  other  gods  before 
me.' " 

"Right — now  the  second?" 

"  Thou  shalt  not  make  unto  thee  any 
graven  image' " — 

"Stop  there,  children!  Thus  teaches  the 
Protestant  Bible,  and  this  shows  Its  false- 
ness. The  second  commandment  Is,  Thou 
shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy 
God  in  vain.' " 

"What  is  the  third,  children?" 

"  'Thou  shalt  not  take'  " — 

"No,  no — that  is  the  second  command- 
ment. Let  me  repeat — the  third  command- 
ment Is: 

"  Hemember  the  Sabbath  day,'  etc. 

"The  fourth  is,  'Honor  thy  father  and 
thy  mother.' 

(166) 


"The  fifth  is,  'Thou  shalt  not  kill.' 

"The  sixth  is,  'Thou  shalt  not  commit 
adultery.' 

"The  seventh  is,  'Thou  shalt  not  steal.' 

"The  eighth  is,  'Thou  shalt  not  bear  false 
witness.' 

"The  ninth  is,  'Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy 
neighbor's  wife,'  etc. 

"The  tenth  is,  'Thou  shalt  not  covet 
anything  that  is  thy  neighbor's.' 

"This,  children,  shows  ye  how  the  Prot- 
estants have  perverted  even  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments, inserting  as  the  second  com- 
mandment what  is  not  in  the  original,  or 
true,  Bible. 

"Even  the  true  Bible  is  not  to  be  read 
alone  by  common  people.  It  must  be  ex- 
plained by  the  priests,  much  less,  then,  is 
the  Protestant  Bible  to  be  read.  This 
teacher  uses  not  the  catechism  of  the  Holy 
Church.  How,  then,  can  he  teach  the 
truth?  The  Bible  does  not  contain  all  in- 
struction necessary  for  salvation.  Indeed, 
were  every  copy  in  the  world  to  be  de- 
stroyed, it  would  not  matter.  The  tradi- 
tions and  other  teachings  of  the  Church  are 
inspired  and  contain  the  doctrines  of  eter- 
nal life  fully  as  much  as  does  the  Bible. 

"I  see  thou  hast  one  of  these  heretic 
Bibles  here!"  added  the  cura,  turning  to- 

(  167 ; 


ward  the  teacher's  desk.     "I  will  take  it!" 

But  the  young  maestro  was  too  quick 
for  him. 

"Hand  it  over  to  me!"  demanded  the 
priest. 

"It  is  my  property,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

The  whole  town  was  astir  with  the  story 
of  the  encounter  and  how  the  slim  young 
man  ordered  the  priest  to  leave  in  such 
tone  that  he  obeyed. 

"That  quiet  young  man  was  strong 
enough  and  brave  enough  to  meet  and  to 
conquer  the  cura!"  said  Don  Ramon  that 
night,  while  his  daughter  sat  by  his  side. 

"Then  he  is  strong  and  brave  enough  to 
take  and  to  keep  my  daughter/'  he  added 
in  husky  tone  as  to  himself. 

And  she,  listening,  bowed  her  head  and 
blushed. 

Oh,  the  old  man  had  not  been  so  stupid 
and  so  blind  after  all. 


(168) 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  POWER  OF  THE  PBIESTHOOD. 

The  next  Sabbath,  there  was  read,  from 
the  church  pulpit,  the  names  of  those  ex- 
communicated; and,  heading  tihe  list,  was 
the  town  mayor  and  the  young  heretic 
teacher. 

"Oh,  my  people!''  cried  the  cura,  in  trem- 
ulous tones.  "Terrible  things  are  yet  to 
be  visited  upon  this  town  because  ye  dare 
defy  God's  holy  priest.  Ye  defy  not  me, 
but  the  Holy  Church  and  the  Almighty, 
wihose  representatives  we  are.  Ye  seem  to 
have  forgotten  the  powers  of  God's  holy 
priests. 

"In  order  to  give  to  his  priests  the  power 
of  saying  mass,  our  Lord  Jesus  had  to  die. 
To  redeem  the  world,  it  was  necessary  that 
our  Lord  should  die.  A  single  drop  of  his 
sacred  blood,  a  single  tear,  a  single  prayer 
of  his  would  have  sufficed.  But  in  order  to 
establish  the  priesthood,  our  Lord  Jesus 
had  to  die. 

"On  Mount  Calvary,  the  priest  that  of- 
fered the  sacrifice  was  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  himself,  and  in  the  holy  sacrifice  of 

(169) 


the  mass,  the  priest  that  offers  sacrifice  is 
also  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

"Great  was  the  power  which  God  gave 
to  man,  but  the  power  given  by  Christ  to 
his  priests  is  infinitely  greater.  Whenever 
they  say  mass,  they  hold  in  their  hands 
after  the  words  of  consecration,  Jesus 
Christ,  their  Lord  and  God,  to  receive  him 
and  to  give  him  to  all  those  who  wish  to 
receive  him  in  holy  communion.  This 
power  of  the  priest  surpasses  even  the 
power  of  creation.  By  creation,  God  pro- 
duces the  substance  of  bread,  out  of  noth- 
ing, by  his  word.  But,  by  words  of  priests, 
in  consecration,  the  substance  of  bread  and 
wine  is  changed  into  the  most  sacred  body 
and  blood  of  Christ.  To  whom  shall  I 
compare  the  -priest?  Next  to  God,  his 
equal  can  not  be  found  even  in  heaven  or 
earth. 

"And  more, — power  is  given  to  priests 
to  free  men  from  their  sins.  Seek  where 
you  will,  through  heaven  and  earth,  you 
will  find  but  one  created  being  who  can  for- 
give  sins,  and  that  is  the  priest,  the  Cath- 
olic priest. 

"Who  can  forgive  sins  except  God?  was 
the  question  which1  the  Pharisees  sneering, 
ly  asked.  Who  can  forgive  sins?  is  the 
question  which  the  Pharisees  of  the  present 
day  also  ask;  and  I  answer,  There  is  a 
(170) 


man  on  earth  who  can  forgive  sins,  and 
that  man  is  a  Catholic  priest.  The  sinner 
who  goes  to  the  priest  in  confession  will 
be  just  as  well  absolved  as  the  sinner  who 
goes  to  the  blessed  Lord  himself.  The 
priest  not  only  declares  that  the  sinner  is 
forgiven,  but  he  really  forgives  him.  Th^ 
priest  raises  his  hand,  he  pronounces  the 
words  of  absolution,  and  in  an  instant, 
quick  as  a  flash,  the  chains  of  hell  are 
burst  asunder  and  the  sinner  becomes  a 
child  of  God.  So  great  is  the  power  of  the 
priest  that  the  judgments  of  heaven  itself 
are  su'bject  to  his  decision.  The  priest 
absolves  on  earth,  and  God  absolves  in 
heaven.  The  priest  is  the  ambassador,  the 
plenipotentiary  of  God.  He  is  the  co-opera- 
tor, the  assistant  of  God  in  the  work  of  re- 
demption. 'We  are  the  co-operators  and  as- 
sistants of  God'  (I  Cor.  3). 

(These  words  are  quoted  from  "God  the 
Teacher  of  Mankind,"  Michael  Muller.) 

"To  the  priest  also  is  given  the  power  of 
preaching  the  Word  of  God,  and  governing 
the  faithful.  They  also  have  power  to 
bless  or  consecrate  things  for  the  divine 
service,  as  altars,  chalices,  vestments, 
churches,  holy  water  and  the  bread  and 
wine." 

Many  were  so  impressed  with  the  pow- 
ers of  the  priesthood  that  they  removed 

(171) 


their  children  from  the  heretic  school. 
Aunt  Eulalia  felt  obliged  to  leave  her 
brother's  roof  and  eeek  another  abiding 
place. 

But  time  passed  on,  and  a  second  year 
found  Frederico  and  his  mother  still  in 
the  town  of  Altiza  and  the  heretic  maestro 
still  directing  the  town  school. 


(172) 


CHAPTER  XV. 
TESTED. 

The  old  town  church1  stood  backing 
against  the  rocky  mountain  slope.  Its  front 
tower  looked  down  over  the  houses,  and 
from  this  tower  the  bell  called  the  devout 
to  worship.  The  back  tower  was  seldom 
entered. 

Up  the  dark  stairway,  leading  into  this 
tower,  there  stepped  slowly,  one  evening, 
two  men.  They  were  lifting,  or  rather 
leading,  something  between  them.  It  was  a 
girl.  It  was  Constancia. 

Reaching  the  landing,  they  paused  a  mo- 
ment, when  one  took  from  his  pocket  a 
key.  The  door  grated  on  rusty  hinges  as 
it  opened  before  them. 

"Madre  Santisima!  How  I  hate  to  en- 
tomb so  beautiful  a  creature  here!  Foolish 
maident,  recant!  I  will  bear  thy  word  to 
the  priest,  that  thou  spend  not  this  night 
here!" 

The  girl  made  no  reply,  but  she  shud- 
dered, and  closed  her  eyes  as  they  drew 
her  within,  locking  the  door  upon  her. 
(173) 


She  wondered  why  she  had  not  called  for 
help  as  they  led  her  along  the  passage- 
way. None  could  hear  her  now!  But 
sinking  upon  her  knees,  there  went  up 
from  her  heart  a  strong  cry  to  her  God, 
the  God  she  had  learned  to  love  since  she 
had  known  and  loved  her  Frederico.  Then 
looking  about  her  in  the  twilight,  she  saw 
the  dusty  cobwebs  hanging,  and  above  her 
the  iron-grated  window,  so  high  that  she 
could  only  reach  her  fingers  through  the 
bars  as  she  stood  upon  h«r  tiptoes.  In 
one  corner  of  the  little  room  was  a  piece 
of  native  mat,  and  near  it  a  brazero  (earth- 
en  jar),  with  bits  of  half-burned  charcoal. 
An  earthen  cup  lay  upon  the  floor,  and 
Constancia  shivered  as  she  wondered  if 
the  poor  unfortunate  who  had  been  allowed 
to  warm  her  "atole"  on  these  coals  had 
been  a  girl  like  herself,  and  whether  she 
had  escaped. 

Night  had  filled  the  room,  but  still  she 
crouched  upon  the  floor  waiting  and  think- 
ing. 

She  understood  it  all  now.  Why  Aunt 
Eulalia  had  sent  for  her  on  pretext  of  ill- 
ness. How  she  had  begged  her  to  renounce 
her  heresy,  and  how  at  last  she  had  in 
anger  bade  her  return  home,  but  as  a  last 
favor,  asked  her  to  go  to  see  little  Rosita, 
Constancia's  little  protege,  who  was  sick 
(174) 


in  the  priest's  house  in  care  of  the  house- 
keeper. Aunt  Eulalia  had  arisen  from  her 
bed,  dressed  herself  and  accompanied  her 
to  the  back  door  of  the  cura's  dwelling, 
where  the  housekeeper  had  met  Constan- 
cia,  and  led  her  in  to  Rosita's  bedside. 
Aunt  Eulalia  had  promised  to  return  soon. 

But  as  time  passed  and  no  return,  Con- 
stancia  asked  to  be  shown  to  the  door. 

"Yes,  chulita,  this  way  to  the  side  exit," 
said  the  housekeeper,  leading.  Suddenly 
the  girl  found  herself  in  a  room  facing 
the  priest,  her  father's  enemy. 

There  were,  at  first,  a  few  words  of  greet- 
ing, then  expostulations,  warning  and 
finally  two  servants  were  called,  and  she 
was  led  through  an  inner  passage,  by 
way  of  the  church,  up  into  the  back  church 
tower. 

She  understood  the  plot,  yet  she  held 
no  ill-will  against  her  aunt,  for  she  knew 
how  anxious  was  that  aunt  that  she  return 
to  the  fold  of  the  Church,  and  she  knew 
that  priests  taught  that  any  means  what- 
ever were  right  to  bring  thereby  the  er- 
ring back  again. 

More  easily  could  she  have  forgiven  her 
Aunt  Eulalia  had  she  known  that  at  that 
hour  Eulalia's  heart  was  filled  with  re- 
morse, and  she  had  taken  to  her  bed,  sick 
in  truth  this  time. 

(175) 


But  the  girl's  heart  would  have  been 
more  filled  with  alarm  had  she  known  that 
at  that  time,  also,  sat  the  priest  full  of  re- 
joicing, for  at  last  had  come  the  hour  for 
which  he  long  waited,  the  time  for  his 
revenge  upon  Don  Ramon,  her  father. 

Meanwhile,  as  night  came  on  and  no 
Constancia  in  the  home,  her  father  sought 
her  at  Eulalia's  dwelling. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  sick  woman,  "Con- 
stancia was  here,  but  she  has  gone  home 
with  Dona  Rita's  girls,  They  took  her 
with  them  in  their  carriage.  I  was  to 
let  you  know,  Constancia  said,  but  I  was 
suddenly  taken  too  ill  to  go  or  send  any 
one,  as  thou  dost  see,  brother.  Forgive 
me!" 

Don  Ramon  was  ill  at  ease.  The  whole 
affair  was  unlike  his  daughter.  But  he 
could  not  doubt  his  sister.  He  would  wait 
till  morning.  The  old  man  who  had  un- 
willingly helped  in  conducting  Constancia 
to  the  tower  resolved  to  let  toer  father 
know.  But,  upon  reflection,  he  knew  this 
would  be  an  unwise  step,  for  the  girl  was 
completely  in  the  power  of  the  priest,  who 
could  even  put  her  to  death-  before  the 
father  might  arrive  with  help.  He  re- 
solved to  watch  and  wait. 

Her  lover  passed  an  anxious  night.  Call- 
ing at  her  home  and  not  finding  her  there, 

(176) 


Don  Ramon  with  apparent  unconcern  told 
him  she  was  out  of  town.  But  the  young 
man  detected  the  hidden  tone  of  anxiety, 
and  could  not  quiet  a  certain  unrest  in  his 
own  mind. 

Constancia  could  not  tell  how  she  herself 
passed  the  night.  Her  dreams  and  waking 
thoughts  seemed  one.  Would  her  father 
and  her  lover  miss  her,  and  would  they  find 
her?  Had  her  God,  whom  she  trusted,  for- 
gotten her? 

At  light  of  day,  she  arose  and  moved 
about,  though  she  felt  weak  and  ill.  She 
strained  herself  to  reach  her  fingers 
through  the  window  bars,  looking  through 
to  the  sky  and  the  few  morning  clouds 
floating  past.  Suddenly  there  flew  across 
her  vision  a  flock  of  birds.  Pigeons,  they 
were,  flying  and  circling  about  the  tower 
where  were  their  nests.  She  watched  them 
intently  as  they  passed  again  and  again. 
One,  there  was,  a  snow  white  pigeon  among 
them.  They  all  drew  nearer,  when  sudden- 
ly she  cried  out,  "Oh,  oh!  There  is  Puris- 
imo,  Frederico's  Purisimo!''  and  reaching 
her  fingers  through  the  window  bars,  she 
called  the  little,  low  cry  by  which  she  had 
often  called  him  to  her  side  and  held  him 
while  Frederico  had  called  them  both  "his 
purisima." 

The  bird  circled  round  and  round,  drew 
(177) 

12 


nearer  and  lit  upon  her  fingers.  She 
turned  them  about  his  feet  and  drew  him 
within,  clasping  him  to  herself,  kissing 
him  and  crying.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
thought,  she  sprang,  holding  him  the  while, 
and  tearing  the  hem  from  her  handker- 
chief, snatching  a  bit  of  charcoal,  wrote, 
"Constancia — Torre."  Then  fastening  this 
around  Purisimo's  wing,  she  kissed  him 
again  and  pushed  him  through  the  win- 
dow. 

Frederico  was  restlessly  walking  up  and 
down  the  back  yard.  He  had  risen  early 
that  morn  and  walked  out  to  town,  to  the 
house  of  Dona  Rita.  They  knew  nothing 
of  Constancia.  He  had  resolved  to  keep 
his  anxiety  from  her  father.  He  had  asked 
a  friend  to  take  charge  of  his  school  for 
the  day,  and  was  about  to  start  on  hie 
quest,  when  Purisimo  flew  over  the  wall, 
settled  upon  the  ground  and  began  to  pick 
at  his  wing. 

Frederico  noticed  the  bird  and  the  white 
strip  and  removed  it.  When  to  his  horror, 
he  deciphered  the  words  and  understood. 
He  must  not  even  tell  his  mother  or  her 
father.  All  caution  was  necessary.  He 
knew  the  old  man,  the  church  guardian, 
who  had  the  keys. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  old  man,  "I,  too,  am 
keeping  watch  of  that  fair  maid  up  there. 
(178) 


I  had  said  to  myself,  'She  is  not  to  be  left 
there  much  longer.  There  have  been  oth- 
ers sent  there,  who  have  never  returned, 
'but  this  one  comes  down!'  Keep  the  front 
door  of  the  cura's  residence  in  sight,  and 
when  thou  dost  see  him  take  his  departure, 
slip  thou  into  the  church,  and  there  I  will 
find  thee  and  we  will  bring  her  out.'' 

The  priest  himself  had  visited  the  tower 
that  morning.  The  brave  girl  refused  to 
recant.  Her  "obstinacy"  alarmed  the  man. 
If  it  should  be  known  that  she  was  im- 
prisoned, his  life  would  be  in  danger.  Yet 
he  had  undertaken  the  case  and  he  must 
isee  it  through  to  the  end.  He  would  wait 
till  night;  hunger,  thirst,  loneliness  and 
fright  would  surely  conquer  then.  Still,  in 
his  anxiety,  he  stayed  about  the  place  a1.! 
day.  Toward  evening,  in  answer  to  an 
urgent  call,  Frederico,  still  on  watch,  saw 
him  depart. 

Through  the  long  day  the  girl  had  in 
turn  scanned  the  sky,  walked  the  floor  and 
sank  upon  her  knees. 

As  darkness  again  came  on,  she 
crouched,  faint  and  sick,  upon  the  mat. 
Surely,  surely,  her  God  would  not  forget 
her.  Then  she  thought,  or  dreamed,  that 
her  lover  had  come  and  taken  her  in  his 
arms  and  borne  her  off,  so  swift  and  strong. 
She  heard  steps  without,  the  door  opened 

(179) 


and  a  man  in  a  long  black  cloak  leaned 
toward  her. 

"It  is  the  priest  again!"  she  thought. 
But  she  had  no  strength  to  cry  out.  She 
closed  her  eyes.  He  lifted  her  quickly  into 
his  arms.  She  opened  her  eyes,  looked 
into  his,  knew  her  lover  and  fainted. 
After  she  had  come  out  from  her  long 
illness,  they  told  her  how  Aunt  Eulalia  had 
scarce  left  her  bedside,  begging  for  forgive- 
ness and  to  be  taken  again  into  her  broth- 
er's home.  "No  more  of  priests  for  me!" 
she  said. 

They  told  her,  too,  how  her  father,  Don 
Ramon,  had  from  that  day  been  searching 
town  and  country  for  the  cura,  but  never 
yet  had  he  been  found,  and  the  town  of 
Altiza  had  need  to  find  another  priest. 


(180) 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
A  WEDDING  GUEST. 

Not  very  long  after  the  events  recorded 
in  the  last  chapter,  there  ca'me  to  the  town 
of  Altiza  some  strangers.  People  of  high 
birth,  it  was  said,  amid  t)he  daughter  was  a 
beauty,  more  lovely  than  even  Constancia. 
So  said  the  discarded  admirers  of  Con- 
stancia. The  two  girls  had  become  ac- 
quainted. 

"She  is  one  of  those  condemned  here- 
tics. Thou  must  not  associate  with  her!" 
so  said  friends  to  the  newcomer.  But  in 
spite  of  warning,  the  two  girls  became 
fast  friends.  Frederico,  too,  was  much 
drawn  toward  this  new  friend. 

"She  makes  me  think  of  a  queen,  so 
beautiful  and  stately  she  is!"  said  Fred- 
erico one  day.  "And  yet,  there  is  some- 
thing about  her  that  makes  me  feel  as 
though  I  have  always  known  her.  I  won- 
der what  it  is.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
her  name  is  Mariana,  the  name  of  my 
long-lost  sister.  Whenever  she  is  here 
talking  with  us,  there  comes  over  me  a 
strange  feeling,  as  though  I  had  known  her 

(181) 


when  we  were  children.  Yet,  Constancia, 
with  all  her  beauty,  she  is  not  one-half  as 
lovely  as  thou  art!" 

The  marriage  day  was  now  fast  ap- 
proaching. The  Protestant  minister  was 
to  come  to  perform  the  service. 

"Mariana  Gavina  must  be  present,  for 
she  is  one  of  us  now,  and  she  must  find 
an  heretic  husband,  too,"  exclaimed  Con- 
stancia. 

"Methinks  there  would  be  more  than 
one  young  man  willing  to  turn  heretic 
for  that  fair  hand!"  said  Aunt  Eulalia. 

Dona  Alicia,  Frederico's  mother,  sighed 
as  she  sat  and  listened.  She  had  heard 
so  much  of  the  beautiful  Mariana  Gavina, 
yet  she  had  not  met  her.  The  name  made 
her  think  as  of  her  own  little  Marianita 
who  left  her  on  that  summer  afternoon, 
never  to  return.  She  hardly  knew  wheth- 
er she  cared  to  know  another  with  that 
same  name. 

Not  even  the  bride  Constancia  was 
more  beautiful  that  wedding  eve  than  the 
guest  Mariana,  and  Dona  Alicia  could  not 
remove  her  gaze  from  that  lovely  face. 

"Oh,  what  is  it,  what  is  it!''  she  kept 
saying  to  herself  all  the  eve.  "What  can 
it  be!  Those  eyes  are  tihe  eyes  of  my  own 
little  girl."  Ah,  who  can  explain  a 
mother's  instincts? 

(182) 


"Child,"  she  exclaimed,  at  last  approach- 
ing and  taking  her  by  the  hand.  "Tell  me 
thy  name!  Is  it  Mariana  Gavina?" 

"Why,  yes,  senora — that  is,  it  is  now. 
But  it  used  to  be  Mariana  Peralta.  I 
was  stolen" — 

But  the  mother  was  weeping,  with  her 
arms  about  the  girl.  Then  Frederico  un- 
derstood why  he  felt  that  he  had  always 
known  Mariana,  his  sister. 

"A  strange  ending,"  all  said,  "for  a  wed- 
ding feast.  Strange,  yet  happy!" 

But  majny  strange  things  had  been  hap- 
pening lately  in  that  little  heretic  town. 

"How  rich  I  am  now;  I  have  two  daugh- 
ters!" exclaimed  Dona  Alicia. 

But  Mariana's  foster  parents  could  not 
truly  rejoice  because  she  had  found  her 
own  mother. 

"Come  and  live  with  us!"  said  Dona 
Refugia  to  Dona  Alicia.  "For  a  while,  at 
least;  for  we  can  not  part  at  once  with 
her.  She  has  grown  to  us  as  our  very 
own." 

So  the  young  couple  were  left  to  begin 
life  together  in  the  pleasant  new  home 
which  Don  Ramon  had  finished  for  his 
daughter. 

"She  still  must  stay  near  by!"  said  the 
fond  father.  And  the  young  heretic  teach- 
er still  managed  the  town  school. 

(183) 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AUBELIO. 

Far  across  the  republic,  in  the  great  cap- 
ital city  of  Mexico,  had  been  growing  up 
all  these  years,  a  young  man,  tall,  straight 
and  handsome. 

Aurelio  Mendez  he  was,  who,  when  a 
boy,  had  been  stolen  for  a  ransom. 

He  was  now  left  an  orphan,  but  had 
learned  to  carefully  keep  the  money  left 
to  him.  He  had  traveled  much,  over  his 
own  country  and  in  other  lands.  In  Eu- 
rope he  had  fitted  hlmseilf  for  a  phyisi- 
cian,  and  again,  Ifi  his  home  city,  was 
known  as  the  skillful  and  popular  Dr. 
Mendez. 

"Favored  man!"  his  companions  were 
accustomed  to  say  to  him.  "Talented, 
traveled  and  handsome!  BlusTiing  senor- 
itas  and  covetous  mammas  follow  thee 
with  longing  eyes,  and  yet  to  none  of  their 
charms  dost  thou  yield.  Thy  heart  is  of 
stone.  Or  hast  thou  a  heart?" 

"Ah,  ye  have  at  last  guessed  aright.  I 
have  no  heart!  It  was  left  long,  long  ago 
in  a  little  shanty  in  a  canon's  mouth  far 
ir  the  wilds.  It  has  not  since  returned! 
PercTiance  I  may  yet  run  across  it!" 

(184) 


And  the  young  doctor  would  gaily  laugh, 
and  move  about  as  if  to  rid  himself  of 
some  clinging  shadow.  But  in  his  own 
room,  and  alone,  a  quiet  mood  would  steal 
over  hfm,  and  opening  his  chest,  he  would 
draw  from  it  a  paper  box,  and  lift  from 
thence  a  long  shining  curl.  And  again  he 
would  see  those  eyes,  like  stars,  looking 
up  into  his,  and  could  feel  a  little  shorn 
head  against  his  shoulder,  and  a  child's 
voice  saying,  "I  love  thee,  Aurelio!  I 
trust  thee,  and  thou  will  come  again  and 
take  me  hence!" 

There  were  many  Protestants  in  the  City 
of  Mexico,  so  many  that  they  were  not  an 
unpopular  people.  And  some  of  the  doc- 
tor's best  friends  were  of  their  number. 
Still,  he  prided  himself  in  belonging  to 
"no  church."  "Religion  is  good  enough 
for  women,"  he  said.  "A  man,  and  espe- 
cially a  doctor,  can  get  on  without  it!" 

And  yet  he  took  great  interest  in  all 
that  counted  for  his  country's  good. 

President  Diaz,  Mexico's  good,  grand 
man,  was  then  in  his  young  strength,  and 
Dr.  Aurelio  courted  every  opportunity  to 
see  and  to  hear  him.  Mexico's  past  his- 
tory and  her  struggles  were  to  him  a  fas- 
cinating study,  and  his  leisure  hours  oft- 
en found  him  admiring  anew  the  stately 
monument  of.  Hidalgo  or  the  wonderful 
(185) 


recumbent  statue  of  Benito  Juarez.  He 
found,  too,  that  in  Mexico  was  worshiped 
two  Virgins,  "La  Virvin  de  los  Remedies," 
which  Spain  had  brought  to  Mexico,  and 
the  "Lady  of  Guadalupe,"  benefactress  of 
the  native  Mexicans.  She  it  was  who  had 
appeared  to  the  Indian,  Juan  Diego,  and 
for  whom  the  shrine  at  Guadalupe  had 
been  built.  Her  paintings  represent  her 
in  blue  cloak,  covered  with  stiairs,  her  Coot 
on  a  crescent  and  her  hands  clasped.  On 
either  side  of  her,  within  the  frame,  are 
strings  of  gold  and  jewels.  Above  all 
hangs  a  silver  dome. 

The  Spanish  "Virgin  de  los  Remedies" 
is  dressed  in  embroidered  satin,  strings 
of  pearls  hanging  from  neck  to  knees,  her 
crown  inlaid  with  emeralds  and  her  belt 
with  diamonds.  She  wears  three  skirts, 
the  first  embroidered  with  pearls,  the  sec- 
ond with  emeralds  and  the  third  with  dia- 
monds. Aurelio  was  told  that  her  skirts 
alone  are  valued  at  three  millions  of  dol- 
lars. The  great  cathedral,  too,  was  grand 
and  imposing,  the  altars  within,  gorgeous 
and  glittering,  the  images  and  paintings, 
expansive  and  wonderful. 

He  made  a  study  of  other  cities,  also, 
among  them  the  famous  city  of  Puebla, 
where  he  saw  the  old  convent  which  the 
Protestants  (Methodists)  have  purchased 

(186) 


and  converted  into  their  mission.  He  was 
told  how,  when  the  walls  were  broken  Into, 
there  were  revealed  cells,  and  skeletons 
of  men  and  women  who  had  been  cemented 
alive,  prisoners  within  their  cells.  Ex- 
cavations revealed  underground  apart- 
ments where  were  strewn  the  bones  of  in- 
fants. Passages,  too,  there  were,  secret 
passages  within  the  walls  leading  to  the 
apartments  of  the  nuns.  Thus  was  re- 
vealed to  him  part  of  the  workings  of 
the  Holy  Church  of  Rome.  In  one  of  the 
churches  in  this  city,  his  attention  was 
called  to  a  printed  prayer,  framed  and 
hanging  near  the  door,  which,  translated, 
read  as  follows: 

"Most  Holy  Virgin  of  Guadalupe,  glo- 
rious Daughter  of  God,  the  Father,  Mother 
of  God,  the  Son  and  Wife  of  God,  the 
Holy  Spirit,  my  lady  consecrated  and 
sanctified  before  thou  wast  created,  I  pray 
thee  my  patron  saint  and  lady,  that  if 
to-day,  if  this  moment,  if  this  hour,  or  if 
during  the  remainder  of  my  life,  or  in 
death,  any  sentence  should  be  passed 
against  me,  or  against  anything  of  mine, 
it  may  be,  by  thy  inltertcession,  revoked, 
and  by  the  hand  of  thy  Son,  Jesus  Christ, 
be  turned  aside.  Amen.  Jesus.'' 

There  was  also  a  notice  pasted  near, 
"His  Holiness  and  the  Bishops  have 

(187) 


granted  indulgence,  for  this  mass,  thirty- 
two  thousand  years,  ten  days  and  six 
hours." 

In  some  of  the  cities,  in  Mexico,  thert 
was  continued  warnings  against  incroach- 
ing  heretics. 

One  day  he  heard  read  from  the  pulpit, 
extracts  from  one  of  the  standard  au- 
thorities of  the  Church  of  Rome,  and 
therefore  safely  quoted  all  over  Mexico. 
("God,  the  Teacher  of  Mankind,"  "The 
Church  and  Its  Enemies,"  by  Michael  Mul- 
ler.) 

"We  need  not  fear  these  heretics,"  be- 
gan the  preacher;  "they  will,  in  God's 
own  time,  come  to  naught.  Let  me  read 
to  you  from  our  own  safe  authority: 

"  'Protestantism  has  never  been  able  to 
convert  a  heathen  nation,  although  it  has 
every  human  means  in  its  power.  It  had 
a  vast  number  of  ministers,  plenty  of 
ships  to  carry  these  ministers  to  every 
country,  boundless  wealth  and  great  arm- 
ies and  navies  to  terrify  the  heathen,  also 
its  merchants  scattered  through  every 
quarter  of  the  globe;  with  all  this,  Prot- 
estantism has  not  converted  a  nation,  nor 
even  a  city  or  tribe  of  heathens,  to  Chris- 
tianity after  these  hundred  years  of  exis- 
tence. It  has  been  ascertained  that,  dur- 
ing the  last  fifty  years,  Protestantism  in 

(188) 


Europe  and  America  has  collected  and 
spent  over  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
millions  of  dollars  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
verting the  heathen.  One  hundred  mil- 
lion Bibles,  Testaments  and  tracts  have 
been  printed  in  various  languages  and 
scattered  throughout  the  world.  Five 
thousand  missionaries,  with  large  salaries, 
varying  from  one  hundred  to  five  hun- 
dred pounds  each,  and  also  an  additional 
allowance  for  their  wives  and  families, 
are  kept  annually  employed  in  the  work, 
and  yet  all  to  no  purpose.  No  result 
whatever  can  be  shown. 

"  'During  every  month  of  May,  the  va- 
rious sects  of  Protestants  hold  their  anni- 
versary meetings  in  London  and  New 
York.  At  these  gatherings  speeches  are 
made  land  reports  reafl,  in  which  the  peo- 
ple are  told  of  the  wonderful  conversions 
which  are  just  going  to  take  place;  of 
pagans  stretching,  or  about  to  stretch,  out 
their  hands  to  God;  of  schools  to  be 
opened;  of  sums  spent  in  Bibles,  Testa- 
ments and  tracts.  Every  promise  is  made 
for  the  future,  but  nothing  whatever  is 
shown  for  the  past.  The  meetings  are 
ended,  votes  of  thanks  given  to  the  vari- 
ous chairmen,  prayers  said,  subscriptions 
received,  and  the  huge  delusion  lives  on 
from  year  to  year. 

( 189  ) 


"  'Some  /of  the  ^isetottaries  -givs  up  the 
work  in  despair;  others  in  disgust;  others 
fly  from  persecution,  being  terrified  at 
the  very  idea  of  martyrdom.  One  mis- 
sionary comes  back  to  his  native  country, 
because  of  the  sudden  death  of  his  wife; 
another  to  bury  his  youngest  daughter  in 
her  mother's  grave;  another  leaves  the 
field  of  his  labor  to  console  his  dear 
mother  on  her  death  bed;  another  comes 
home  to  look  after  some  small  property 
left  to  him;  another  comes  home  because 
his  wife  has  quarreled  with  the  wives  of 
some  of  the  other  missionaries. 

"  'Many  Protestant  missionaries  give  up 
the  work  of  saving  souls  for  more  lucra- 
tive positions,  or  to  become  merchants  on 
their  own  account,  or  for  some  good  gov- 
ernmental situation. 

"  'Protestant  travelers  and  writers  who 
have  visited  the  fields  of  Protestant  mis- 
sionary labor,  have  themselves  furnished 
the  world  with  these  details.  They  tell 
of  a  few  converts,  here  and  there,  who  re- 
lapse into  paganism  whenever  the  mis- 
sionaries withdraw.  They  tell  us  that  the 
missionaries  become  tyrants,  and  perse- 
cute the  people  when  they  get  the  chance; 
that  they  drive  the  natives  into  the  Prot- 
estant meeting  houses  by  force,  and  make 
them  more  brultail,  profligate,  crafty, 

(190) 


treacherous,  impure  and  disgusting  than 
they  were  before.  One  writer  states  how 
he  found,  in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  that 
the  Protestant  missionaries  had  civilized 
the  people  into  draught  horses,  and  evan- 
gelized them  into  beasts  of  burdens;  that 
they  were  literally  broken  into  the  traces 
and  harnessed  to  the  vehicles  of  their 
spiritual  conductors,  like  so  many  beasts 
of  burden.  The  missionaries  are  dwelling 
in  picturesque  and  prettily  furnished  coral 
rock  villas,  while  the  miserable  natives 
are  committing  all  sorts  of  crime  and  im- 
mortality about  them.  (Quoted  from  Mul- 
ler.) 

"  'Now,  why  can  not  Protestants  con- 
vert the  heathen?  Because  they  have  no 
power.  They  are  a  false  sect.  They  have 
no  head;  every  Prote&tiajit  believes  wthat 
he  chooses.  Indeed,  the  founders  of  thia 
sect  were  all  wicked  men,  and  they  only 
immitate  their  leader,  Martin  Luther,  who 
was  a  licentious  man  and  left  the  Church 
because  he  wished  to  marry.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  salvation  to  a  Protestant. 
No  one  is  saved  out  side  of  the  Holy 
Mother  Church.  She  is  the  only  one  true 
and  living  apostolic  church.  I  say  apoa- 
tolic,  because  she  can  show  precisely  how 
she  obtained  possession  of  the  divine  au- 
thority of  the  apostles.  The  Roman  Pon- 

(191) 


tiff,  Pius  IX,  can  name  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty-three  popes,  who,  without  a 
break,  handed  down  the  authority  of  St. 
Peter,  the  head  of  the  apostles,  even  to 
himself.  He  can  tell  the  day  and  hour  of 
his  election  and  consecration,  which  are 
consigned  to  imperishable  monuments.' " 

Ofiten  the  young  docttor  hiad  felt  a  de- 
sire to  see  again  the  scenes  and  home  of 
his  boyhood.  He  had  read,  years  before, 
of  the  ravages  of  the  yellow  fever  along 
the  Western  Coast,  and  among  the  list  of 
its  victiims  was  the  family  of  Peralta. 
This  knowledge  had  prevented  his  putting 
into  execution  his  long-felt  desire.  But  at 
length  he  yielded.  His  old  hacienda  home 
he  would  not  have  recognized.  The  city, 
too,  the  home  of  his  boyhood  friend,  Mari- 
ana, he  would  not  have  known.  He  re- 
mained some  time  in  the  city,  and  here 
learned1  'to  know  arid  admire  the  her- 
etic missionary.  From  him  he  too  learned 
to  know  and  .  to  love  the  heretic's 
God.  "I  will  make  amends  ,for  my  life 
of  indifference  and  infidelity.  I  will 
do  all  I  can  in  this,  my  childhood  coun- 
try, to  help  and  to  heal  both  body  and 
soul." 

And  so  the  young  heretic  doctor  was 
much  in  demand. 

One  day  he  was  telling  the  Protestant 

(192) 


missionary  of  the  time  when  he  was  kid- 
naped. 

"Why,  yes,"  wa's  the  reply;  "I  .have 
been  told  all  about  it,  too.  It  is  a  story 
well  known  still.  And  the  young  man, 
Peralta,  brother  of  the  stolen  girl,  is  our 
loved  and  esteemed  school  teacher  in  the 
town  of  Altiza." 

"And  has  nothing  ever  been  known  of 
his  sister?"  asked  the  doctor. 

The  heretic  was  about  to  relate  to  him 
the  story  of  the  wedding  night  and  its 
wonderful  discovery.  But  what  spirit  of 
mischief  was  iti  which  so  suddenly  .pos- 
sessed the  good  man!  for  he  answered 
with  apparent  indifference: 

"Why,  yes,  something  has  been  known 
about  the  girl.  But  I  am  going  to  the 
town  next  week  where  lives  her  brother. 
Thou  must  accompany  me,  and  he  will  tell 
thee  what  they  have  learned  about  the 
young  lady,  for  she  still  lives." 

And  of  all  the  happy  findings  of  mother 
and  children,  of  sister  and  brother,  per- 
haps none  was  more  sweet  or  more  tender 
than  the  finding  again  of  the  little  child 
lovers  of  the  robber  haunts. 

And  the  little  slender  gold  chain  and 
the  long  shining  curl  found  their  right- 
ful owners. 

(193) 
13 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
A  WORK  WELL  FINISHED. 

Meanwhile,  down  in  the  city  below,  many 
changes  had  taken  place.  The  best  front 
room,  for  preaching,  in  the  heretic's  dwell- 
ing, had  been  exchanged  for  a  neat  chapel, 
largely  the  gift  of  friends  in  his  own  home 
land.  The  man  himself,  "leader  of  the 
heretics,"  he  was  still  called,  had  grown 
older,  a  few  silver  threads  scattered 
through  the  brown  hairs.  But  still,  with 
that  winning  smile  of  his,  he  walked  the 
streets,  or  traveled  in  his  littte  cart  over 
the  mountains,  preaching  in  the  villages 
and  mining  camps.  He  never  carried 
weapons.  He  said  they  were  never  an  ad- 
vantage, rather  a  disadvantage. 

"Are  you  not  afraid,  as  you  travel  back 
and  forth  alone,  and  walk  these  streets 
alone  at  night?"  had  asked  his  wife. 

"Why  should  I  be  afraid?  I  am  safe 
till  my  work  is  done." 

"You  are  reckless,  are  you  not?" 

"Call  it  what  you  please,  but  I  am  not 
afraid.  This  work  my  Master  has  given 
me  to  do  i©  his.  And  I  know  I  am  per- 

(194) 


fectly  safe  till  my  work,  not  his,  is  fin- 
ished." 

The  woman  made  no  reply,  though  there 
came  to  her  mind  how  he  had  told  her  of 
repeatedly  being  followed  on  the  streets 
by  some  one,  who,  whenever  he  turned, 
had  fled.  The  last  time  he  had  caught 
sight  of  a  dark  line  across  his  forehead, 
and  there  was  a  gleam  of  metal  thrust 
quickly  under  his  long  cloak. 

One  sultry  summer  afternoon  he  was 
nearing  the  city  from  a  neighboring  vil- 
lage. From  the  west,  where  rolled  the 
broad  Pacific,  he  saw  clouds  arise.  Rapidly 
they  grew,  higher  and1  blacker,  cleft  ever 
and  anon  with  flashes  of  lightning. 

"God  pity  the  mariner  in  his  ship  this 
night!"  prayed  the  man  in  his  heart. 

He  hastened  his  horse,  for  there  was  fast 
approaching  one  of  those  tropical  storms  he 
knew  so  well. 

Already,  over  the  city  before  him,  swirled 
clouds  of  dust,  thrown  high  and  driven 
along  by  the  mighty  wind.  Birds  were 
scuttling  along  with  tilted  wing,  rabbits 
scurrying  to  the  bushes.  Then  the  storm 
struck  the  woods  he  was  entering.  The 
trees  along  the  roadfeide  tossed  their 
branches  and  lashed  each  other  as  if  in 
fury.  Tall  alamo  trees  bowed  and  bent 
till  their  plumed  branches  swept  the 

( 195 ) 


ground.  Surely  they  will  snap  and  break! 
But  no — after  a  moment,  shivering,  they 
slowly  rise  and  straighten  themselves  to 
await  the  next  mighty  breath.  The  black- 
ness had  shut  down  close  upon  him,  when 
suddenly  there  was  a  blinding  flash  of 
light,  a  crash  and  roar,  and  the  horse 
leaped  to  one  side,  while  at  the  same  in- 
stant were  emptied  the  clouds,  not  in  gentle 
drops,  but  torrents  that  deluged  and  swept 
from  under  feet,  almost  the  ground  itself. 

Again  the  horse  leaped  to  one  side,  for 
across  the  path  lay  a  man  dead  or  fright- 
ened. 

"Should  he  pass  him  and  leave  him 
there — he  was  in  such  haste?" 

But  no,  a  part  of  his  work  was  to  quiet 
his  terrified  horse,  arouse  the  man  and  lift 
him  into  the  seat  by  his  side.  The  man 
leaned  heavily  against  him,  well  nigh  un- 
conscious from  his  fright,  and  as  his  hat 
fell,  the  missionary  saw  an  ugly  scar  acroiss 
his  temple. 

The  storm  had  spent  itself.  They  were 
nearing  the  city  when  the  man,  drawing  a 
dagger  from  his  side  and  throwing  it  into 
the  bottom  of  the  cart,  cried  out: 

"Oh,  Senor;  take  this!  With  it  I  meant 
to  kill  you!  I  have  followed  you  time  after 
time  to  kill  you.  But  some  power  has  al- 
ways restrained  me.  I  never  could  reach 

(196) 


you.  I  am  'El  mozo  del  Diabolo'  (the  dev- 
il's errand  boy).  For  any  bloody  deed  I 
have  ever  been  ready,  because  they  pay  me 
money.  I  do  not  hate  thee.  I  sought  not 
thy  life  for  hatred,  but  because  I  loved 
the  money  they  gave  me.  I  have  listened 
to  your  words,  Senor,  and  they  are  good. 
I  thought  once  to  give  up  this  life,  and 
when  I  found  money,  jewels  and  pearls 
in  the  house  of  Peralta,  I  thought  to  be 
a  man  and  go  away  and  live  like  men. 
But  alas,  I  spent  it  all  in  riotous  living.  I 
came  back  again  to  this  city,  hungry  and 
poor,  and  became  again  'the  devil's  errand 
boy'  because  of  money  which  they  give 
me.  But  I  can  not  touch  you.  Oh,  can  you, 
can  you  forgive  me!'' 

The  heretic  forgave  by  taking  him  to  his 
home,  where,  dried  and  fed,  they  talked 
together  of  Jesus  and  his  forgiveness. 

"  'The  devil's  errand  boy'  has  turned 
heretic!"  was  the  news.  "Who  will  be 
the  next?" 

But  all  noted  the  changed  man,  the  new 
man,  in  his  right  mind.  And  never  was 
there  a  follower  more  loyal,  more  loving 
to  the  heretic,  than  this  same  "Mozo  del 
Diabolo.'' 

But  there  came  a  strange,  sad  day  into 
the  heretic'®  home.  From  one  of  the  min- 
ing camps  he  had  brought  a  fatal  fever's 

(197) 


germs,  and  for  days  its  fires  burned  and 
burned  and  would  not  be  quenched. 

His  little  daughter  and  the  woman  who 
loved  him  kneeled  by  his  bedside  while 
there  crept  over  them  the  strange,  awful 
stillness.  Even  the  little  boys,  talking  to- 
gether in  the  corridor,  lowered  their  voices, 
while  the  baby  lisped,  "Where  is  papa  go- 
ing?" 

The  little  mourning  dove  that  had  been 
nesting  in  the  big  fig  tree  down  in  the 
garden,  had  left  her  home,  and  all  day 
long,  flitting  hither  and  thither,  had  kept 
up  her  mournful  call: 

"Come — back — to — me.  Come — back — to 
me!" 

The  woman  shuddered  and  hid  her  face 
as  she  listened  to  its  cry.  All  day  long 
she  had  felt  that  strange  presence  in  the 
room,  yet  she  had  refused  it  recognition. 
Nearer  and  still  nearer  it  crept,  silently, 
waiting  to  claim  and  bear  away  its  victim. 
Then  in  her  desperation,  she  turned  and 
cried: 

"Depart,  oh,  depart,  grim  Death!  Thou 
who  didst  take  from  me  my  little  one,  my 
first  born!  Art  thou  come  again  to  take 
from  me  my  husband,  him  whom  I  need, 
him  whom  I  lean  upon?  Go,  go;  for  I 
need  him;  his  little  ones  need  him!  Leave 
us  at  least  till  his  children  are  older,  till 

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his  baby  may  know  to  remember  his  father. 
Oh,  spare  us!" 

But  there  came  no  answer,  save  the  little 
moaning  dove. 

Then  the  woman  threw  her  arms  about 
the  dying  husband,  as  if  to  hold  him  back. 
He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked)  at  her,  then 
looked  beyond  and  smiled. 

"It  is  Jesus/'  he  whispered.  "Let  me  go, 
but  do  not  let  God's  work  stop!" 

Ah,  he  was  glad  to  go!  Then  Death  was 
no  terrible  thing.  It  was  Jesus  himself 
come  to  take  to  rest  his  servant,  hia 
loved  one,  whose  work  was  finished. 

"Ah,  Death,  thou  art  no  longer  terrible 
to  me.  Thou  art  no  longer  cruel.  Thou 
art  welcome.  Oh,  take  me,  too!"  she  cried. 

But  in  her  heart  she  heard,  "Not  yet,  my 
daughter;  thy  work  is  not  yet  finished. 
Thy  little  ones  need  thee,  and  there  is 
much  yet  to  be  done  for  my  dear  children 
of  Mexico!" 

That  night,  silently,  there  came  into 
the  room,  one  by  one,  those  whom  he  had 
loved1;  those  for  whom  he  had  gladly  left 
home  and  dear  ones;  silently,  one  by  one, 
they  came  into  the  room,  till  the  room  was 
full. 

"We  will  stay  with  thee  all  through  the 
night  and  watch  with  thee!"  they  said. 

"Oh/1    cried   the   woman   in    her    heart, 

(  199) 


"can  ye  not  leave  me  alone,  alone  with 
my  dead  this  last,  last  night— this  last 
night!" 

Again  there  was  an  answer,  "Daughter, 
thou  mayst  not  be  selfish,  even  in  thy  grief! 
He  was  theirs,  as  well  as  thine!" 

At  midnight  the  door  opened  softly,  and 
two  young  men  stepped  in,  Aurelio  and 
Frederico.  Silently,  they  stood  and  looked 
upon  the  face  of  him  they  loved. 

"We  have  journeyed  all  day  and  into 
the  night  that  we  might  see  once  more  and 
speak  to  our  much  loved  teacher.  But  we 
are  too  late!" 

Then  it  was  Frederico,  the  quiet  one, 
who  kneeled  and  prayed. 

"Great  God,  thou  hast  seen  fit  to  take 
from  us  our  well-loved  teacher!  He  who 
taught  us  the  way  to  thee.  He  lived  for 
us;  his  last  thought  was  for  us,  for  Mexi- 
co. 

"Then,  oh,  God,  wilt  thou  now  teach 
us,  that  we  and  others,  many  others,  may 
take  up  the  work  he  has  laid  down;  that 
we  may  carry  it  on,  and  on,  and  on,  till 
all  in  our  own  dear  Mexico  may  know  and 
acknowledge  Jesus,  Jesus  only,  as  Savior; 
that  Mexico  may  know  no  priest,  no  Virgin, 
no  saint  as,  mediator;  but  Jesus  only,  and 
God,  as  Father,  above  all." 

(  200) 


